


The Best Kept Secrets

by Allychik6



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Amnesia, Arthur hates all his clothes because none of them are good enough, Eames has awesome parents, M/M, Secrets, the military
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-30
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:13:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 38,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25003693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Allychik6/pseuds/Allychik6
Summary: After waking up in a strange place with only his exboyfriend (God, he hopes he's not dating this moron now), he's stuck trying to remember the last five years of his life. But everything seems to rub him the wrong way, from the boxes of Mac and Cheese to the utter depravity that is his closet.The only time he ever seems to feel himself is around Julia, and there is something about her mouth...He's still gay, isn't he?Excerpt:Stewart had been to the gun range, Arthur realized as soon as he stepped into the entryway and could smell him. There was no mistaking the scent of gunpowder as faint as it might have been. When Arthur got closer, he closed his eyes and inhaled deeply.“You should come with me next time,” Stewart said, and Arthur stepped back, embarrassed.Something about the smell of gunpowder. It was comforting, familiar, almost routine. At the same time, it was provocative, heady. Arthur wanted to chase that scent down streets and corridors, through fields and forests, on boats and in cars. As if gunpowder were as vital as blood pumping through his veins. “Yeah, maybe.” His mind was too busy flitting from thought to thought to settle on anything except the need for a gun in his hand.
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur slouched against the wall with only one eye cracked open and fumbled for the key card in his pocket. He could hardly remember the face of the clerk who had handed it to him three floors down, but that didn’t matter. After four months of gritty, grimy hotels with questionable sheets and rooms available by the hour, the DoubleTree was an oasis in the desert. The hall was empty since it was after 3am, and Arthur could barely lift his eyes from the dull green carpeting. He waved the key in front of the door no less than three times before the lock finally clicked open and he dropped his elbow down on the handle in a sort of controlled fall that shoved the door open as he stumbled through. 

No hotel room had ever looked more welcoming 

Only the light from the hall filtered into the space, but with the bright white duvet, it was enough to find the bed. And after four months on the run, trying to dodge persistent and numerous tails, the bed was the only thing that mattered. God, had it really been four months since he’d seen Eames, since they’d gone to the Symphony, since Inception? It felt longer. Arthur dropped his suitcase, arm still cuffed to the PASIV, and fell onto the blanket. He was asleep before he hit the pillow. 

He never heard the door click shut. 

* 

The first time Eames worked with Arthur, it was a legal job. It wasn’t exactly high on Eames’ list of ideal jobs, but forging jobs were thin on the ground. In fact, Eames only worked one, maybe two jobs in the Dream Sharing community a year. More people meant more risk, and most jobs were done with just two. He did have other, more real world and illegal activities to occupy his time, but that had nothing to do with the joy that was Forging. So, if Eames wanted to Forge, he couldn’t exactly be turning down jobs when they came his way, even if they were contracting with the US military. 

And besides, the US military tended to pay its contractors both reasonably and on time, which was not always a guarantee with less legal pursuits. 

He had worked with Cobb before, once or twice on equally boring and legal jobs for other governments, and knew Cobb preferred to work out of his home. Because Cobb would never sleep away from his wife if he could help it. And Mal ran an interior design firm out of their spare room (because the client base was bigger, not because she liked designing interiors over buildings). Also, Cobb had a thing about trousers, which Eames found both undesirable and completely understandable as he, too, preferred a no trouser look in his own home. 

So, when Cobb called to ask about the Forging job, Eames already knew he would say yes, but he wasn’t about to just agree over the phone. 

“Come on, Eames, this will be a good opportunity for you to expand your repertoire,”-- always a thing Eames appreciated -- “make a little cash,” -- because he did enjoy the casinos -- “and Mal swore she’d make a roast for you,”-- one of Eames’s favorite meals -- Cobb pleaded over the phone. 

Still, Eames held out. He waited to hear the magic words, which Cobb mumbled into the phone only a moment later. “You can stay in the house.” 

It wasn’t the food or the money or even the chance to Forge that Eames enjoyed most about the Cobb household. It was their tankless water heater and the sheets Mal insisted they buy from France. That beautiful high thread count, that endless supply for scalding hot water which Eames enjoyed even in the blistering heat of California. “When should I be there?” 

“End of the week, if you can.” 

Eames could and he was. 

He arrived Thursday morning, having caught a red-eye and took a cab to the Cobb’s. When you only took legal jobs, you could afford to let your co-workers know where you lived. Mal answered the door (probably because Cobb was still trouserless); “Eames!” she cried, threw her arms around him, and kissed both cheeks. 

And then there was the cry of something small and terribly angry in the background. Mal closed her eyes and sighed heavily. “I need to feed her.” She ambled into the house. “You remember your way around? Dom is in the shower,” she said loudly as she disappeared into the kitchen. 

Eames would have followed her, to investigate what surely must have been a howler monkey, but something else caught his attention. It might have been a cough, or the rustle of papers, or even just the clink of dishes, but when he thought back on the moment, Eames was never quite sure what possessed him to peer into the front study. 

It was the room Cobb usually used for his Dream Work while Mal had appropriated a room in the back of the house. Eames had always suspected they could never bear to be more than a loud shout away and that they would never accomplish anything if they tried to share a workspace. Sometimes love was like that, all consuming and eternal. He enjoyed the opportunity to observe the two of them up close and in a personal setting as they were so unlike his own parents who enjoyed a similar type of love but in a more British way. 

Eames stood in the doorway to Cobb’s study and saw the young man straightening papers and carefully clipping them together. He had on leather shoes, carefully pressed trousers, and a Ralph Lauren polo. He looked like a high school student all set for his first job interview or perhaps a university tour, but there was something about the breadth of his shoulders or maybe it was the tilt of his head or possibly the sureness of his fingers. Eames knew this was a man. Something unfurled in his stomach, something deep and feral that had been sleeping for a long time. This was a man Eames wanted to see mussed, shirt rucked up, trousers unbuttoned, one shoe on, one lost to the other side of the room. Would his skin turn pink at the tips or all over? Would his breath catch in almost imperceptible hitches? Or would he gasp and moan loudly as he came undone? 

“You must be Mr. Eames,” he said, tapping another pile of papers on the desk to straighten them out. He carefully clipped them together and held the collection out for Eames. “I’ve compiled a list of characteristics, mannerism, linguistic idioscentracies, hopefully everything you need for your Forge.” Because Eames wasn’t forging a real person, but someone imaginary. 

Eames pursed his mouth and flipped through the thirty pages. Cobb had told him over the phone that they were designing a training simulation for the US Air Force using Dream Sharing technology, but by that point of the conversation Eames had moved on to thinking about food. Would Mal use those tiny onions? Or would she get the vadalia ones he liked so much? 

The packet was full of long sentences in horribly small font, a few graphs, and one or two pictures as reference material. “This seems quite thorough. Who are you?” Because, again, why hire someone you didn’t need, and Cobb had never worked with a partner before. 

“Oh Arthur!” Mal appeared in the doorway behind Eames. “Could you take her, please? I can hear Dom is out of the shower, and it’s been so long since I’ve showered alone. Please? I’ve got the bottle prepared.” 

Arthur stood abruptly, and Eames had only a moment to appreciate the length of his legs and the tapered waist before he was striding past to take the tiny, scowling thing from Mal. “Hate to see ‘em leave, love to watch ‘em go,” Eames muttered not very quietly as he admired Arthur from behind. 

Mal smacked his arm quite hard for the tiny thing she was. “Oh Eames! Don’t start with Arthur. He just got out of a relationship. It ended quite badly. He doesn’t need you drooling all over him.” 

“Of course he does,” Eames replied casually. “That’s what every man needs at the end of a bad relationship.” Not that Eames would ever know. He’d sworn off that kind of thing when he’d gotten into this business. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in love or that he believed it wasn’t the kind of thing for him, but love was a risk he couldn’t afford. Lust, on the other hand, was a very different thing, and Eames engaged in that as often as the opportunity presented itself. 

With Arthur in the kitchen and Mal headed towards the shower, Eames sat down in Cobb’s chair and began to read the papers that Arthur had given him. It was a very, very detailed description of an Afgani woman, complete with number of children and pregnancies (which was not the same number) and expected rainfall patterns. Why Eames would need to know rainfall patterns while forging a woman in a Dream where there wouldn’t be any rain, Eames surely didn’t know. But he looked over the chart anyway. 

“I see you’ve met Arthur,” Cobb said from the doorway, nodding at the papers in Eames’s hand. 

“Where did you find him?” Eames tossed the pile on the desk. 

“Ex-military.” Cobb shrugged. “I’d done work for his team before. When he got out, he came asking about a job.” 

“And what, you took him in out of the goodness of your heart?” 

“He’s experienced, he knows the military, he was able to help me get this contract. He’s been valuable.” Cobb fell into the chair Arthur had vacated. “Also, Phillippa likes him. He’s the only one who can get her to stop screaming for some unknown reason.” 

“That would be the sprog?” Eames asked. 

“Why did I think a baby was a good idea?” Cobb rolled his head back. “I mean, yeah, she sleeps all day, but then she’s up all night. And Mal’s been going crazy with it. I had to feed her dinner last night because Phillippa wouldn’t stop screaming until Mal stuck the bottle in her mouth, and then she just threw it up over the both of us. It’s a nightmare.” He ran his hands through his hair. “We haven’t had sex in months.” 

“Too much information.” Eames frowned and shook his head. “What does any of that have to do with Arthur?” 

“It’s torture, Eames, literal sleep deprevation torture. How does something that weighs eight pounds managed to torture two grown adults?” 

“She’s not torturing you,” Arthur said from the doorway. “Stop being melodramatic.” He had Phillippa swaddled in a blanket, pacifier in her mouth, and eyes fluttering closed. “Did you read through the whole thing?” Arthur shifted the baby to one arm and reached across the desk for another clipped pile of papers. “Because I have two more of those for you.” 

“Two more?” Eames said incredulously. “When did you have time for that?” 

“I was up with Phillippa last night. She likes to look at the computer screen.” Arthur handed the second dossier to Eames. 

Eames was busy glaring at Cobb. “Sleep deprivation? Really?” 

Cobb sank down in the chair. “You don’t know what it’s like when she screams.” 

:

Around three am, Eames found out just how right Cobb was, when Phillippa let out a murder cry that pierced the eardrum, jerking everyone out of bed in a frantic rush to find the fire. Arthur had gone wherever it was that Arthur went when he wasn’t living with the Cobbs, leaving the three of them to try and decipher what the squalling beast wanted. Mal was crying and Cobb was pacing the nursery trying to sing something, and Eames did the only thing reasonable. He called the expert. 

Arthur didn’t even sound tired! “She’s hungry. I left a bottle in the fridge before I left last night. Give her that, make sure to wait a minute or two after she spits out the nipple to make sure she isn’t still hungry and then burp her. She likes to be swaddled tight, hands and feet in. And then rock her back to sleep.” 

Eames tried to repeat that back to Mal and Cobb, but on the third try, Arthur sighed heavily into the phone and said, “I’m on my way. Give me fifteen minutes.” 

He was there in ten. Mal had found the bottle and was trying to get Cobb to stop walking long enough to shove it in the sprog’s mouth, when Arthur strode into the room, snatched the screamer from Cobb and the bottle from Mal in one finely timed movement and settled the bottle into her mouth. 

Cobb collapsed into the rocking chair while Mal stepped in closer to see what Arthur was doing that she hadn’t. “She likes to be contained,” Arthur said quietly. “Think about it, she’s been trapped inside your stomach for nine months, something holding her in tight all that time. All this space freaks her out, you’ve got to just hold her tight.” 

Carefully, Arthur passed Phillippa to Mal without letting the bottle slip from her mouth or the tension around her body ease. “There you go. Get out of the chair, Cobb, unless you’re going to feed her.” 

Eames had never seen a man move so fast. “All yours Mal, I’m going to bed.” 

Arthur sighed a little wearily. “I’ll be downstairs if you need me.” He brushed past Eames on his way out of the room. 

Eames followed. “How’d you get so good at this?” 

Arthur was fixing a pillow and blanket on the couch and shrugged at Eames. 

“Why stay here and put up with it?” 

“Mal and Dom are good people, and a baby’s a lot to handle. Sometimes you need help.” He laid down and pulled the blanket over top of himself. “Do try to get some sleep, Mr. Eames. We’re going to start practice runs tomorrow.” Arthur rolled over, and to all appearances, did just that. 

Eames stopped by the nursery on his way back to the spare room. Mal was rocking in the chair, holding the baby tight to her body, bottle tipped into her tiny mouth, and Mal was singing too quietly for Eames to make out the words. But they made a pretty sight, the lines of her face softened by the smile directed at the baby, her hair mussed with sleep, the sleek nightgown. It was such a different look from the panicked expression before Arthur arrived. 

Even Eames had felt a little panicked, and then the calm efficiency of Arthur had arrived and soothed everyone. With a smile at Mal, Eames took himself back to bed, and they all slept until half six when little Phillippa made her presence known again. 

When Eames stumbled into the kitchen, in his boxers and t-shirt, Arthur was fully dressed in clean trousers and a button down standing in front of the stove cooking eggs and bacon and hashbrowns. His back was to Eames, but Eames saw the slight rise in his shoulders. “Well, aren’t you just the epitome of domesticity, wrangler of babies and breakfast alike.” 

He couldn’t actually see Arthur roll his eyes, but there was something in the heave of his chest that indicated it. “Good morning, Mr. Eames. I hope you slept.” 

“I’d say like a baby, but apparently they don’t sleep much at all. Is there coffee?” 

Arthur pointed with the spatula to the half full pot on the counter. “Cups in the cabinet above.” 

“Well aren’t you a dear.” Eames poured himself a cup and then took a seat at the table. They were both silent as the bacon sizzled and Arthur watched the hashbrowns to keep them from burning. When Arthur set a plate in front of Eames though, he had to ask, “And are you as impressive with other meals? Perhaps I should hold out for your roast over Mal’s.” 

Arthur laughed and poured himself another cup of coffee before sitting down. Eames liked the sound, clear and light, like a low pitched bell, a tinkling noise that sent little shivers of pleasure up his spine. “Just breakfast I’m afraid. A skill of necessity as I’ve always been an early riser.” 

Eames nodded and tucked into his scrambled eggs (with cheese!). They sat in a companable silence until Mal arrived, looking harried, with Phillippa in arm. Her whole demeanor relaxed as soon as she laid eyes on Arthur, and he stood and took the baby, walking into Cobb’s study and murmuring soft nothings to her. 

“I am going to make him her godfather,” Mal pronounced as she poured the last of the coffee into an enormous mug. “Then he will never be able to leave.” 

Eames laughed a loud bark at the thought. 

She turned her attention to him. “Do not fear, my dear Eames. We will make you the godfather for our second.” 

Eames coughed on his eggs, and she laughed. And she was still laughing when Cobb shuffled in muttering about bacon. It wasn’t until after the three of them had devoured the breakfast that Arthur had cooked that Eames realized Arthur hadn’t gotten a single bite. 

They all adjourned to their respective workspaces, with Phillippa resting happily in some sort of portable baby bed. Arthur had explained what it was several times and Eames had delightfully forgotten each time. He spent an hour studying the dossier on the Afagani woman before Cobb decided they should test the architecture of the “training simulation” which Eames renamed as Dreams every time. 

“These guys are all seasoned, so it’s very important we get the details of the simulation correct,” Cobb said. 

“How many different Dream scenarios are you planning on running?” Eames asked, gesturing to the three different dossiers that Arthur had given him. 

He thought correcting Cobb might irritate Athur, but he never paused in his typing. He didn’t even pause when he answered Eames’s question. “It’s all the same scenario, a market bombing, but with different hostiles. You are either an innocent victim or the culprit and it is the team’s job to figure out which.” 

When the conversation turned to the PASIV, Arthur finally paused and looked up; Eames was stupidly jealous. Arthur looked over at the silver case in the corner with something that looked akin to longing. It was the first time in twenty-four hours that Eames had seen an expression cross Arthur’s face and not known, precisely, what it meant. 

“Would you prefer to go under?” 

Arthur turned from the PASIV and fixed Eames with an equally incomprehensible expression. “No.” 

Curious, Eames threw his papers down and stepped over to the case. It had been nine months since he’d gone under, nine very long months since he had shed his own skin and fell into another’s. He ran his fingers across the handle lovingly. “Not curious? Have you seen a Forge before?” 

Arthur crossed the room to the safe where Eames knew Cobb kept his supply of Somnacin. He admired the way Arthur bent down fluidly, the light way he handled the combination lock, the long curve of his spine. It was all purely professional. “I’m sure there will be time for me to be suitably impressed with your skills,” he said as he stood. 

“I am not sure if you are patronizing me, dear Arthur, but I can assure that my skills are indeed,” he paused to lick his lips suggestively, “impressive.” 

Which was the moment Cobb arrived. “Stop making Arthur uncomfortable, or I will insist Mal make you Phillippa’s godfather.” 

Eames shuddered slightly. “Ugh, progeny.” 

Arthur handed Cobb the somnacin and then reached around Eames without a ‘pardon me’ for the PASIV. “Shall we adjourn to the living room?” 

“By all means,” Eames leered, ignored Arthur’s scowl, and proceeded to admire the view as Arthur led the way to the living room. 

He was quick to set up the PASIV, and Eames admired that in a man. A quick assembly was often important in his line of work, although Cobb might not appreciate the skill as much. Eames inserted his own IV, but Arthur helped Dom with his. It was a sign of just what side they each worked on, the self-sufficiency and reliance. But then Arthur was pressing the plunger and they were all drifting off to war torn Afghanistan.

:

The testing went well, and Tuesday had Arthur driving Eames, Cobb, Mal, and a screaming Phillippa to the airport. They were just dropping Eames and Cobb at the door, but Mal refused to be seperated from Dom for one second longer than necessary. Again, it would have been disgustingly codependent, but Eames had seen his own parents, and his mother’s listlessness when his father was stuck late at a meeting for the London Symphony. 

Arthur turned on the blinkers and then got out to help Eames with the bags while Cobb said goodbye to Mal. He reached back into the car after getting all the bags on to the curb and handed yet another carefully bound set of papers to Eames. “For the plane, in case you need something to read.” 

Eames casually flipped through it. There were names and lots of bullet points. “Did you make dossiers on the team going under with me?” 

Arthur shrugged. “We can’t make it easy for them, can we?”


	2. Chapter 2

Arthur woke up with what he sincerely hoped was the worst hangover he would ever experience. His head ached with a ferocity that brought to mind--well, nothing actually because he couldn’t think through all that pain. It started at the base of his neck and reverberated through the rest of his head like an unending base drum from some loud and horrible pop song. Or death metal, if Arthur had ever heard death metal. 

Abruptly he rolled to his side and vomited onto the floor. Nothing came up but foul tasting bile, and Arthur tried to look around the room (without moving his head) for something to rinse his mouth. And that was when he knew something was very, very wrong. 

_Well, this is a right cockup_ , offered a voice at the back of his mind, and Arthur would have agreed wholeheartedly if he wasn’t too busy trying to figure out where he was. 

There was sunshine coming in through the window that could have been late morning or late afternoon. With an impressive amount of willpower, Arthur forced his nausea down and sat up. He glanced down at his arm and saw the single puncture mark along his forearm. The blanket on the bed was a scratchy flannel in camo green, and Arthur knew he must be on base. It wasn’t as comforting a thought as it should have been. 

There was a nightstand, but no clock. It was wood, cheap and mass produced for longevity and function rather than any aesthetic value. It matched the bed and desk which had neither papers nor some sort of computer. Arthur stood and riffled through the drawers, but only found dust and a bent paper clip, which he might have pocketed except that his sweatpants did not actually have any pockets. There was a closet in the corner by the door, which contained three sets of fatigues; the style of camoe was new and Arthur had no way of knowing which branch of the military they represented. No patch with a rank, and the boots looked to be the correct size, but Arthur had no interest in wearing something that heavy. He ran his fingers across the stiff fabric, a new requisition then. 

Arthur closed the closet and surveyed the room in its entirety rather than in the nooks and corners. The floor was white tile, the walls beige. Barracks. Probably. Outside the window he could see long stretches of asphalt and more buildings. Not vegetation. Nothing distinctive. There was not a single personal belonging inside, as if this were simply an empty room he’d been dumped in temporarily. He eyed the door with deep suspicion. How did he get here? Where was here? Why was he here? 

He cast his mind back, but it was murky and his thoughts slow to surface. Much easier to think about the room and what could be gleaned from the scant things inside it, those thoughts danced through his brain lightly, easily. Something was very, very wrong. And Arthur needed more information. What was the last thing he could remember? 

His sister, her voice low and concerned over the phone. He’d been talking to her on the phone about some boyfriend. The memory was also slow to coalesce. At first Arthur could only recall the tone of her voice, the rhythm of her words but not the words themselves. It came back in bits and pieces, her saying his name, the word boyfriend, his tone and a general feeling of unpleasantness. Arthur felt like he was underwater, with his head nearly bursting and his ears clogged, and that strange flickering quality to the memory, like a reel of film missing half the frames. 

_Drugged._

The realization hit him suddenly, like a sucker punch to the gut. His legs gave out abruptly, as if the knowledge itself was affecting his muscles, and he was dry heaving onto the floor. He felt empty long before the heaves ended. 

But at the end, his headache had subsided to a dull ache and his mind seemed a little clearer, if still unable to remember. There was nothing left to learn in the room, so Arthur tried the door. His fingers closed around the smooth, cool knob; it fit perfectly in the palm of his hand, and Arthur focused all his attention on the metal as he slowly twisted it open. It clicked and swung out; and Arthur sucked in a breath before peeking out into the long hall. 

He eased slowly around the door frame to meet the eyes of an officer. 

“Arthur?” he said, voice high. 

_Nerves, poor fellow. No poker for him._

He was seated in an office chair, ankle propped on his knee, no cap, sandy hair buzzed, chubby cheeks that indicated a higher than desirable body fat ratio, but muscles could be difficult to discern underneath the uniform. He was older than Arthur felt he should be, face a little weathered and more lines around the eyes. 

And then his name drifted through Arthur’s mind like a leaf caught in a slow current in a pond, circling slowly with no place to go. All he had to do was lean down and pluck it as it drifted by. “Stewart.” 

He sighed, shoulders dropped in relief, and his foot hit the floor. “Oh, thank god. I was worried you wouldn’t remember me.” He rubbed a hand across his face, another grateful gesture. 

“Where am I?” Arthur felt no such relief. 

“Holloman Air Base, New Mexico.” 

One down. “Why?” 

“What do you remember?” 

Arthur hated the question on instinct alone, but still answered it. He wanted Stewart to answer his question, and honesty might aid that endeavor. “Talking to my sister.” After all, Stewart already knew his sister, safe to reveal that. There was some knowledge bubbling up in Arthur’s mind. He knew Stewart, had known him since basic. He knew about Arthur’s family, even if that information felt too private for this man. 

Stewart nodded and straightened up in his chair. “Do you remember anything about the PASIV program?” 

“PASIV?” The word felt like glass in Arthur’s mouth, slippery, amorphous, important. 

“Yeah, you signed up for an experimental program that was using Dreams to train soldiers in combat scenarios. You were good at it.” 

He paused, maybe to let that information sink in, maybe to see if Arthur would say anything. But Arthur didn’t remember anything, his mind slid off the word like water on glass so he let it go and waited. 

“There was an accident.” Stewart went completely still, no wiggling foot, no tapping fingers, no touching his face. “We think you lost about five years, but we’re not sure.” 

Arthur felt like he might vomit again. “Five years?” How could he just lose five years? And it was like that slippery feeling with the PASIV except a hundred times worse. His mind raced, thoughts running into each other like bumper cars cutting into each other and knocking bits out, but always slipping by too fast to be caught. “How-How does that--” 

He wasn’t looking at Stewart to see him shrug. 

”I need--I need--” Arthur stumbled back a few steps and then turned to stumble into the wall. 

_A right cockup._

Stewart was shouting something, but Arthur’s head was underwater again and the words were lost. Something slammed into his shoulder causing pain to run down his arm. It was the wall, he kept falling into it in a frantic attempt to be somewhere things made sense. His feet slapped against the floor in loud, sloppy beats. And then there were people in the hall, all in hazy blue uniforms and a small part of Arthur’s mind registered that it was Tuesday. A piece of wall suddenly jumped in front of him and the door knob collided with his elbow. Arthur could hardly see the wood, hardly keep his eyes from the cool white tile on the floor. 

As slowly everything went black. 

* 

It was nearly a year before Eames saw Arthur again, and it was completely unexpected. At 2pm, Eames had decided to go for a walk to his favorite cafe, the Primrose, two blocks from his flat, for a cup of tea and a jelly roll. It was mostly older customers, those retired or young mothers meeting friends, in the cafe, and not terribly busy. Eames had just received his tea and jelly roll when Arthur walked through the door dressed in a navy suit with his hands in his pockets. 

He looked so different from the recent ex-military man, now he was buttoned up and professional with his slicked back hair. He’d been so controlled, so responsible, but still approachable in the casual clothes and setting of Cobb’s house. In a suit, Arthur looked like--well, like the kind of men Eames’s mother wanted him to date. 

As Eames sat there, jelly roll and tea not yet tasted, he remembered the competency of Arthur holding the sprog, bottle tucked under his chin and directing Eames to the various details on the models. Arthur in casual clothes conquered the corporate and the domestic. Arthur in a suit surely owned the world. 

“Arthur?” 

Their eyes met, and Eames understood instantly that Arthur had been looking for him. 

“Eames.” 

“Care for a seat?” Eames gestured to the chair opposite him. “What brings you here?” 

“Work.” Arthur sat. 

“Are you here with a job offer then?” Because those sorts of things were generally handled over the phone in Eames’s experience. 

“Of a sort.” Eames raised his eyebrows and Arthur continued. “I’m here with Cobb, and we’re having an access issue.” 

Several thoughts then filtered through Eames’s mind. How had Arthur found him? What kind of access did they need? Why did Arthur think Eames could help? What did Arthur know? 

“Who’s the target?” Eames sipped his tea to cover the sudden nerves. 

“Delmer, Ingenue's CFO.” 

“Fuck,” Eames muttered, because that answer meant Arthur knew everything, or at least everything important, because Eames could get them access because Eames’s mother was hosting her annual garden party to which she invited lots of business people to woo for various charities. Which meant Arthur knew. “And you think I can get you access?” Eames asked, because even if Arthur knew, Eames had to be sure. 

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.” Arthur adjusted his posture to something more defensive. 

“Why?” Eames was a lover, not a fighter. He wasn’t going to start something here, in public, so close to his own home. And besides, revenge was best served cold. 

Arthur licked his lips nervously. “Call me paranoid if you want, but I make a point to know everyone I work with.” He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “If it helps, it took me much longer to learn about you. You were--exceedingly difficult.” 

“How long did it take you?” 

“In truth, I started during the last job, and I only just confirmed everything last week. Like I said, you were exceedingly difficult.” 

And somehow, that did make everything better, because Eames remember the eight dossiers Arthur had written up on his comrades. “You understand why I am uncomfortable with anyone having that information.” 

“I do.” 

“How can I be sure, in our business?” 

“You can’t, but I’ve been informed that my subconscious is--particularly unpleasant.” 

“By who?” 

Arthur smiled. “I was the subject for the D-Day training Dream.” 

Eames whistled his awe. 

“We’ll pay you, of course.” 

“How much?” 

“An equal share, one third.” 

“Alright then.” 

They shook hands, and Arthur stood up. He reached into a pocket and pulled out a business card: it was stark white heavy stock with only some black type, A 574-555-8697. 

Eames tapped the heavy stock against his palm. “I’ll be in touch then.” 

Arthur nodded once and then left, the bell chiming his exit. Eames watched him walk down the pavement, admiring the view he’d nearly forgotten. When Arthur finally disappeared from sight, Eames tried to enjoy his jelly roll and now tepid tea while thinking about the best way to get access for Arthur. His mother was going to be utterly impossible when Eames asked her to add two to the guest list for Saturday. 

On the upside, she’d be even worse to Arthur. 

As a general rule, Eames did not talk about his parents. There was a rumor in the Dream Sharing community, that Eames did not in fact have parents, that he had sprung fully formed from the mind of a psychology professor who had experienced no less than four hundred years of Dream time and had somehow created life. Everyone in Dream Sharing acknowledged that this idea was completely ridiculous, but whenever anyone asked how Eames got started in Dream Sharing, the answer was always (regardless of whether Eames was answering the question or not) a Psychology professor. 

Someone once asked Arthur how Eames had gotten into the business, and Arthur had _looked_ at him with an expression of such loathing that no one had ever dared ask him again. 

Whether or not it was a professor who had sparked Eames’s interest in Dream Sharing, he did have parents. They were disgustingly British in all the best ways. They both spent copious amounts of time in the garden (front and back), his mother knit, his father enjoyed bird watching, and there were always endless cups of tea. They were doggedly affectionate with their pet names and constant tender touches and abundance of caring. Eames and his mother had a standing phone date for one hour every Friday afternoon when he was not in town, and when he was, Eames enjoyed dinner with his parents at least once a week. It was all terribly domestic. 

And Eames would deny with his dying breath that he loved every bit of it. 

“Hello, love,” Violet March, Countess, greeted her son with a peck on the cheek as she walked through the front room of their London home. “I didn’t think you were coming by today.” 

“I wasn’t.” Eames watched her straighten a pile of sheet music by the piano and sort through the disassembled London Times. “I was hoping to add a few names to the guest list for Saturday.” 

She stopped abruptly, straightened up, and fixed Eames with a smile and a quirked eyebrow. “And what is his name?” 

“How do you know it’s a him?” Because usually Eames found a female companion for these sorts of events. 

She shook her head slowly at him, “Oh sweet, you only ever ask when it’s someone serious, and you’re only ever serious about a man.” 

Eames was fairly certain he wasn’t serious about Arthur the way she meant, because he wasn’t one to mix business and personal, but he was serious about Arthur the same way he was serious about all of his work associates. Not that he could exactly say that to his mother. “He’s here for work, that’s as serious as it can get.” Because that was certainly true. 

“What’s his name?” 

“Arthur. And he will be accompanied by his associate, Dominic Cobb.” 

She smiled and her eyes crinkled. “I’ll be sure to add them to the list, but you must make a personal introduction. I wish to meet the man who has so ensnared my son.” 

Eames tipped his head back to rest against the sofa and groaned, “Mother.” 

“Oh, there you are, darling,” Eames’s father said from the doorway. “Are we supping outside? Oh, hello Montgomery, I wasn’t expecting you until Saturday.” 

“He was just asking me to add a name to the guest list.” Violet smiled brightly. 

“Have you started dating someone?” 

“Oh, just kill me now,” Eames said to the ceiling. “It’s not a big deal. I am regretting this already.” Arthur was going to owe him a serious favor. 

Saturday, Eames lingered near the garden entrance, waiting for Arthur and Cobb to arrive. His mother was watching from her spot near the house, she was the ever accommodating hostess but Eames often felt her eyes on him as he waited. As the time stretched on, he could feel his mother’s eyes on him more and more often, and Eames could only imagine the disappointed frown she would bestow on Arthur. 

They were the last two people to arrive, and Arthur stormed the entrance as if he’d never left the military. He was in a cream suit, no tie, with the top button undone, and he looked harried. His hair was in slight disarray, and he had one hand up trying to wrangle it back into order unsuccessfully. And when his gaze landed on Eames, he let out a visible sigh. 

It was utterly endearing, and Eames couldn’t help but smile. 

When Arthur stepped close enough to Eames for words, Cobb was still ten meters behind. “Sorry, Cobb insisted we be late. Some nonsense about being less noticeable.” He was smoothing down his jacket and looking nervously around. “I know your mother hates people who are late.” 

And somehow that was even more adorable. Because Arthur was nervous about making a good impression, and he didn’t even know! “You should know that my mother is under the impression we’re dating.” 

Arthur had moved on to trying to tame his hair again and still looked uncomfortable. “I suppose that’s a reasonable cover. I am really sorry to be intruding on your personal life this way. It was never my intention, and I want you to know that I didn’t tell Cobb anything, just that you had an invite. And I am terribly, terribly sorry we’re late. I’ll make personal apologies--” 

“Arthur!” Eames had to cut him off, it was too much to watch the man who would absolutely rule the world be this nervous. Eames just might have to keep him, like a half-drowned kitten. “It’s fine. If you would like to say hello to my mother, I would be delighted to introduce you.” 

“What about Cobb?” 

Because by then Cobb had made his way into the garden, but had wandered off to schmooze with some of England’s richest businessmen. 

“I think he’s managed to find his own entertainment. And besides, wasn’t the plan to wait until later, when most people are too drunk to remember much?” 

“Yes,” Arthur straightened his shoulders and ran his hands down his jacket again. 

“You look perfect, pet, no need to be nervous,” Eames said with a big smile, steering Arthur down the path to where his mother was still ensconced on the front porch. “It’s just my mother. She really doesn’t care to be referred to by her title, and she’s quite down to earth, really. Just try not to bring up Psychology Today.” 

“What?” But it was too late for Arthur to ask, as Eames gave him a little shove and Arthur stumbled in front of Violet March, Countess. 

She didn’t frown, because Violet had much better, subtler ways of expressing her displeasure. Instead there was this deep wrinkle that appeared on her forehead that gave the impression of deep seeded irritation and a promise of forever being seated at the end of the table and served only cold food. 

But Arthur did his best work under pressure. “Mrs. March, I am so incredibly sorry for my late arrival. I wish I had some sort of excuse for this behavior, but unfortunately, I don’t. I hope you can forgive my rudeness.” 

Violet didn’t smile, because she hadn’t yet determined if Arthur was in fact worth Eames’s time. Instead she paused for a moment, considered the suit, the way Arthur tried to straighten it under her gaze, took in the tailored lines and the windswept look of his hair. “I accept your apology, but you simply must tell me how you and my son met.” She wrapped her hand like a vice around Arthur’s arm and steered him out into the garden. Eames decided to let them go, no need to witness Arthur’s so deserving punishment. There would be time enough for that later. 

Eames got himself an aperitif, spent a few minutes chatting up their mark, and then went to greet Cobb who was in the middle of a very flamboyant sales pitch. After all, there were lots of legal uses for Dream Sharing, although they tended to be less lucrative than the illegal uses. It meant that for a man like Cobb, these sorts of impromptu pitches were significant potential sources of revenue. Eames left him to his single minded purposes. 

It was about an hour before he made his way back towards his mother, with an absent minded thought wondering where Arthur had gotten himself off to. He found them in the back garden, admiring the roses. Arthur was leaning forward towards a particularly lovely English Lady with just the barest hint of pink at the center. His mother was saying something too quietly for Eames to catch, but Arthur nodded thoughtfully and then said something back. 

They made a striking image, his mother, with her gracefully greying blond hair and classic white suit, Arthur with his impossibly dark hair and singular focus on the rose in front of him. No one would mistake them for relatives of any kind, nor did they seem to have established some sort of deep relationship that happens but so rarely on the first meeting. They clearly weren’t old friends or new. No, it was one of those rare moments, a simple joy one person shared with another, as if Arthur had never understood the beauty of a blooming rose before a gardener had patiently pointed it out. 

And maybe he hadn’t, maybe he had done the research and knew just how to play his mother. But Arthur ran a single finger lightly over a petal of the rose, from the pale pink to the perfect white. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like that, Eames realized, like a bucket of cold water on his head. His mother was supposed to be frowning and disapproving, and Arthur was supposed to be stiff and stilted. They weren’t supposed to bond over flowers! “There you are!” Eames called loudly, deliberately not saying who he was talking to. “I was wondering where you’d gotten off to.” 

Arthur straightened, but didn’t turn to face Eames. Instead his mother was the one to answer. “Oh, sweet! Your Arthur is simply charming.” 

“Charming?” 

“Oh yes, he and your father discussed some symphony thing or another for quite some time, and he’s been so kind as to look at the flowers with me.” She then turned away from Eames and touched Arthur’s shoulder. “I really should let you get back to my son. I am sure you would rather spend time with him then me.” 

She gave Eames a bright smile, but said nothing more as she moved back towards the bulk of the party. Arthur looked back at the rose, and Eames stepped up next to him. “She seems quite taken with you.” 

Arthur didn’t reply for a long moment. “I can see why you don’t tell anyone about them.” 

And it was Eames’s turn to be silent. 

“She’s very kind.” 

Eames already knew that, but it was nice to hear someone else appreciate it. 

Arthur took a deep breath. “I suppose Cobb must be ready now.” 

“I would assume,” Eames replied although he didn’t know at all. He hadn’t seen Cobb in some time. 

They stood there for a little while longer. Arthur touched the rose again, stooped to inhale the delicate scent, and then stepped back to admire the whole view. Eames waited patiently, he wasn’t in any hurry and this seemed like a rare moment for Arthur, as if he didn’t get to experience such beauty often. 

But eventually the moment had to pass, and Arthur turned to Eames. “Then I guess we’d better find our guest.” 

Dom was already chatting up Delmer when Arthur and Eames stepped up. Eames grabbed two glasses of wine from a circulating server, and Arthur added the sedative. And then Eames suggested a tour through the house. “My mother keeps some Cindy Sherman prints in the drawing room, if you’d care to view them.” 

As an amateur photographer, Delmer agreed readily. Eames kept up a steady stream of slightly awkward conversation and kept casually touching Arthur, because Delmer was also known to be somewhat homophobic, and Eames wanted him uncomfortable enough to down the whole sedative. Which he very obligingly did. 

Delmer stumbled over the threshold into the house, and then more noticeably over nothing at all in the hallway. They made it only halfway up the staircase, before Arthur had to slip a hand around his waist and haul him the rest of the way up. Eames steered him towards his childhood bedroom, which he no longer slept in but was still the same as when Eames had. 

The room wasn’t big in comparison to the other rooms in the house, but it was quite masculine and comfortable with classic wooden paneled walls and built in bookcases. The large sleigh style bed still dominated the room with it’s taupe and cream bedding. 

Arthur flopped Delmer onto the bed and immediately started swabbing his arm with alcohol. Cobb was already sinking the IV line into his arm, Arthur followed quickly with Delmer, and then Arthur pressed the plunger. 

“You’re not going under?” Eames asked. 

Arthur shook his head. “Should be easy; I’m supposed to look out. You can go back to the party if you want. I’ll wire you your share as soon as we get it. No need to risk you.” 

“Hmmm,” Eames replied. “Think I’ll stay. It’s my room after all, be suspicious if you were here without me.” 

Arthur pressed his ear against the door. 

“They’re very solid, dear. No need to worry.” 

But Arthur could hear someone down the way. “Shhh.” 

Eames stepped closer, pressed his ear against the door and heard the strange shuffling noise. “What the--” 

“Shhh!” 

But Eames didn’t think that would be enough. The door had been open, why would it be closed now. If that was his mother or father or someone else from the household they would know, they might knock or even open the door. Eames moved closer to Arthur. “Might be my mum. She never shuts this door.” 

“What do we do?” 

Eames pressed a little closer, ran his nose along Arthur’s cheek bone. “We give her a reason to not come in.” And then he kissed Arthur, and Eames didn’t hold back. He nibbled, he licked, he pressed, he ran his fingers lightly against Arthur’s jaw, and then he waited. 

And Arthur did not disappoint, he wrapped his hand around Eames’s tie and yanked, he canted his knee up to press delightfully between Eames’s legs. And magnificently, Arthur moaned low and throaty, the kind of noise that reverberated through bodies and, more importantly, wooden doors. Eames shoved, and Arthur thumped into the door and moaned loudly again, having caught the spirit of the moment. 

It was only when Cobb woke up, having shot himself at the completion of the mission, that Arthur and Eames stopped. 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

“Not at all.” Eames ripped his mouth from Arthur, chest heaving and gasping for air. 

Arthur said nothing at all, but pushed Eames away and tried to straighten his clothing. “Did you get it?” 

“I got it.” 

“Good.” 

Eames looked Arthur over, took in the color on his cheeks and the way that color was quickly receding. He saw Cobb nod out of the corner of his eye, and Arthur was quickly packing away the PASIV and Cobb was peeking into the hall and Eames was left trying to decide if he wanted Arthur to stay or leave. There were points for professionalism, but Eames’s libido was saying something quite different. 

Once Arthur was finished packing everything away, which he was still exceedingly adept at, they all stepped out into an empty hall. As Cobb moved down the hall, Eames caught Arthur’s hand and whispered, “You could stay.” 

Arthur paused, waited until Cobb was starting on the stairs, before saying, “I don’t sleep with co-workers. Not any more.” And then left Eames to his hardon in the hallway.


	3. Chapter 3

When Arthur woke the second time, he was in a hospital room with a blood pressure cuff, IV, oxygen monitor, a heart monitor, the whole nine yards. It was the beeping that woke him, that steady beep beep beep of his heart rate, and Arthur turned to read the monitors, the little lines that fluctuated up and down, the flashing red heart, the blinking numbers, all read normal. 

At least his head wasn’t pounding any longer. 

Arthur pulled his arm out from under the blanket to grab the IV pole, to see what exactly they were dosing him with, only to be stopped short by the thunk of metal on plastic. They’d cuffed him to the bed. He looked around the room again, no three curtain walls, this was a private room in the hospital. 

He put his free hand on his chest. Great, they’d put him in a hospital gown too. All in all, he preferred waking up in the barracks even with the memory loss and nauseating pain. 

“You’re awake,” Stewart annoyingly stated from the doorway, a single cup of coffee in hand. “How do you feel?” 

Arthur glared at the coffee cup. Knowledge that it was hospital coffee did not make his envy any less. “I’m cuffed to a hospital bed with a five year gap in my memory. How do you think I feel?” 

Was he still dating this moron? 

“Well, at least you sound like you.” Stewart laughed. “Worst patient in the world, you.” 

Stewart didn’t know shit, Arthur decided petulantly. He started to cross his arms before the cuff got in the way, and Arthur began conspiring to pick the damn thing. He scowled magnificently and chose to glare at the wall rather than look at Stewart. 

“Look, it’s not for long,” Stewart said gently. “You passed out in the hall, dehydrated. The cuff’s just to keep you safe.” 

The anger deflated out of Arthur; he’d forgotten Stewart could do that, just suck the fight out of him with the right words and tone of voice. “What happened to me, Stewart?” 

Stewart crossed the room to sit on the bed beside Arthur and took his hand. It was dry in contrast to Arthur’s sweaty palm. Arthur looked down at Stewart’s neatly trimmed nails, at the length of his fingers, at the way they moved in a soothing pattern across Arthur’s hand. He tried to focus on that, on the simplicity of it, on the comfort offered. 

A part of him didn’t want to be comforted. 

“A PASIV device injects a group of Dreamers with a drug called Somnacin that allows everyone to experience the same Dream. You were in the Dream, Arthur, when something went wrong. We don’t know what happened, but you have some kind of amnesia.” 

“What, like a reaction to the drug?” 

But Stewart was shaking his head. “Something went wrong in your brain. There were doctors in the lab and they were able to run scans right away, but they didn’t find any damage. They think it might be a psychological trauma.” 

Arthur took in that information, tried to fit it with everything else he knew. But it didn’t; he had more questions. “That doesn’t explain why I’m here, at Holloman?” In his memory, if it really was five years ago, then he should have been at Wright Patterson, in Ohio. That’s where this training program was being tested, at AFIT, he’d been assigned there to participate in the research team. It didn’t explain why he woke up in an empty room, it didn’t explain why Stewart, of all people, was here. Why wouldn’t they bring in his sister? Or his mother? They were his emergency contacts. “It doesn’t explain why you are here.” After all, no one had known he and Stewart were a thing. 

Stewart dropped Arthur’s hand. “Things have changed Arthur. For god’s sake, it’s been five years.” He was still; Stewart always went still when he was emotional, irritated or more. 

Like the first time Stewart told Arthur he loved him, Arthur recalled. They were drunk, Stewart outrageously so because he drank tequila and Arthur didn’t, and standing in the hall outside Stewarts room. He swayed forward but his hands were still and his face smiling; he smelled of lime and sweat and alcohol. Arthur didn’t care for the smell, too many bad memories. But he cared for Stewart, and he liked seeing Stewart all loose limbed and even looser tongued. Stewart had been drunk the first time he’d kissed Arthur, and seeing him drunk always reminded Arthur of that night. This time though, Stewart swayed in and missed Arthur’s mouth, lips smooshed wetly against his ears and he mouthed a slurred “I love you.” 

“You’re drunk.” Arthur wrapped his arms around Stewart’s waist to keep him upright. “Are you even going to remember this in the morning?” 

“Telling you? Pro’lly not.” His head dropped onto Arthur’s shoulder. “Don’t know why I had to get drunk to tell you, but I do. I love you, Arthur.” 

Even though he couldn’t remember why, Arthur did remember he’d never said it back. 

“When you sober up, Stewart, when I’ve got leave in a few weeks, maybe we can go out just the two of us,” is what Arthur had said instead, because he was a planner and didn’t want his confession to be the result of too much alcohol. 

Arthur looked at Stewart’s bowed head as he sat on the hospital bed next to him, took in the sloped line of his shoulders, and the clasp of his hands in his lap. “That’s what I mean, Stewart. What happened?” 

“I made mistakes, Arthur.” Stewart brought his hand up to Arthur’s face, ran his thumb across Arthur’s cheek bone. “We both did. This is a second chance for us, and I want to take it.” He pressed his lips to Arthur’s cheek, just a chaste, dry press, but Arthur closed his eyes and yearned for something intimate. Maybe he and Stewart had that, that intimacy that seemed so easy for other people, maybe Stewart felt that when he kissed Arthur, maybe Arthur just wanted to be close to another human being for a while. 

After a few minutes, Stewart moved from the bed to the chair and Arthur did not have long to miss the contact (although he did with a bitterness he didn’t understand) until the doctor came into the room. He was an extremely attractive man in his late fifties, the kind of man who wore laughter in the lines on his face and adventure in the callouses in his hands. He was tall and muscular and genial and Arthur liked him instantly. 

“So you would be my head case,” he joked and Arthur scowled, but the scowl didn’t reach his eyes. “I’m Dr. Amos, overseeing your case. As far as we can tell, you’re just dehydrated, a somewhat severe case, but nothing that a few bags of fluid can’t fix. You’ll have to stay the night for observation, but I don’t see any reason not to discharge you in the morning, assuming you have someone to drive you.” He looked over at Stewart who was nodding emphatically. 

“So, we should talk about amnesia for a minute then. You seem to have dissociative amnesia, which is usually caused by a trauma of some sort, and people generally make a full recovery within a few days, a few weeks at most. I recommend you take some time off of work, get back into your usual routine, see your friends and not worry about it excessively. Those memories will come back with time. Any questions?” 

“Is five years of memory loss typical?” 

That gave Dr. Amos pause. “No, it’s possible that you have retrograde amnesia, but my advice for that would be the same, rest, return to normal routines, and time. Sometimes those with retrograde amnesia make a full recovery, but only time will tell.” 

Arthur didn’t miss the look between Dr. Amos and Stewart. 

“We will discharge you in the morning.” 

“Don’t worry, Arthur. I’m not going anywhere.” 

And why wasn’t that terribly comforting? 

Arthur didn’t sleep much. Stewart seemed to sleep just fine on the chair, and Arthur spent a long time wondering how it could possibly be comfortable enough. And then he wondered if perhaps Stewart was just that tired. And then he wondered why that could be true. And the questions kept piling on top of each other until Arthur thought he might just bury himself underneath all of them. 

At seven am he ordered breakfast, rubbery eggs with a side of bacon and toast. He ordered coffee and a cup of earl grey. The coffee tasted like pig swill, he swallowed the eggs without even bothering to chew, and wished he’d thought to get butter for the dry toast. Arthur sucked the coffee down in two large swallows, and then spent ten minutes just smelling the tea. 

He wasn’t a tea person, and he couldn’t remember ever really drinking it, but Arthur was certain if he were going to drink tea he would order loose leaves, steeped for three minutes exactly and taken black. He wasn’t even going to taste the bagged Lipton, but he liked the smell of the bergamot. Stewart didn’t comment on the tea, even though he must have known that Arthur didn’t drink tea. 

The nurse came in a little after nine to remove all the tubes and wires, and for a few minutes the monitors had a field day thinking Arthur had died rather than just been disconnected. Eventually, Arthur found the off button hidden underneath an invisible plastic panel, and he was certain Stewart had to have found that a little odd. But again, he said nothing. 

It was another hour before he was actually discharged, because that was how hospitals worked, sudden bursts of intense and speedy activity followed by hours of waiting for nothing. The nurse went over the discharge instructions with Stewart while Arthur got dressed, another green shirt and sweatpants. He glared at them for several angry moments as if he could set them on fire by force of will. And then he wondered just what it was he had against the seemingly comfortable pants. 

They made him sit in a wheelchair, because of the brain injury that Stewart had told him he didn’t have. A slow burn started in the pit of his stomach, he wasn’t a child to be treated as if he needed looking after. Maybe he didn’t know what had happened in the last five years, but he’d survived them, hadn’t he? 

Stewart made him sit in the chair with the nurse while he brought the car around, and then they drove in angry silence from the hospital to Stewart’s house on base. Arthur watched the rows and rows of duplexes flicker outside the window, each one looking exactly like it’s neighbor. Arthur counted them. One two three four five six, right turn, one two three four five six, another right turn, one two, and Stewart pulled into the driveway. No garage or carport, Arthur noticed, and the other side of the duplex had a distinctly empty look to it.. No lawn, just sand and a few decorative rocks. The eves of the house were deep, and the stucco a pinkish white. 

It was a split level; probably three bedroom, two bath, 1600 square feet. With a security system--Arthur hadn’t noticed any of those stickers on the other houses. And he could see a camera pointed out towards the yard. They got out of the car and went up to the front door where Arthur saw a doorbell camera as well. That was a lot of security for someone who lived on a secure base. 

Stewart caught him looking. “I’m an information analyst now. I’ve had some break ins in the past, although I was living off base then.” Which put Stewart as handling some very confidential data. Spies were sometimes called analysts, Arthur remembered, and he wasn’t entirely sure what to make of Stewart. But the levels of security were oddly comforting. 

Arthur shrugged and didn’t say anything. 

The front door was light blue on the inside, the walls off white with primer white baseboards, carpet beige, and the tile by the door was also beige. Arthur could see sheer white curtains in the living room and more security on the windows. The carpet seemed too clean for someone to be living here. 

“I’m not here a lot,” Stewart explained. “But there’s a room upstairs for you, the kitchen's through there. I might have bread and eggs, if you’re hungry.” 

“No.” Arthur leaned forward to see into the front room. Ikea couch under the window, more beige carpet, spotless TV, some magazines cluttering the coffee table, and an old flower print chair in the corner by some houseplants that apparently hadn’t died. Since he wasn’t here a lot. And then Arthur saw the frames on the wall. Hotel art, but Stewart had always been boring that way. 

He could hear Stewart in the kitchen, opening the refrigerator, getting into cabinets, but instead of going in and helping or making small talk, Arthur went up the stairs. Down the stairs appeared to be a study or another tv room, and there was probably a bathroom down there too. There were three bedrooms and the second bath upstairs. One room had been furnished as an office with more flat pack furniture. Arthur was looking in the bathroom when he heard Stewart on the stairs. “Mine’s the one on the left.” 

Arthur nodded, still looking at the boring white shower curtain. 

“It’s weird for me too, you know.” 

And then Arthur had to know, couldn’t live in this question of what they were, needed something solid to build an understanding on. He didn’t give Stewart a chance to deflect or escape; his hand latched onto the back of Stewarts neck like a vice, implacable. And he crushed their mouths together--nibbled his lower lips, licked the corner of his mouth--but Stewart pushed him away hard. 

He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and Arthur didn’t miss the brief flash of fear. “So, we’re not together then.” 

When Stewart didn’t say anything, Arthur pushed past him. “Arthur, it’s--you’ve got a brain injury, you can’t remember--things are more complicated than that.” 

Arthur shrugged and shook his head, rejecting everything Stewart just said. “Either we’re fucking or we’re not, and apparently, we’re not. It’s not complicated.” 

Stewart grabbed his wrist as Arthur tried to walk away. “I care about you.” 

“That’s not complicated either.” Arthur pulled his arm free and might have stomped down the hall, if he weren’t too old for such childish behavior. 

He shut the door, not loudly, but not softly either, and then he went through the room just as he’d done in the barracks. He opened every drawer in the dresser, looked under the bed, checked the windows, riffled through the closet. But it was as devoid of any personal items as the barracks had been. 

A little while later, Stewart knocked on the door to ask Arthur about lunch, to tell him he was leaving the house for a meeting, to see if Arthur needed anything. Arthur didn’t. 

He left the bedroom door open and waited for the front door to shut before searching the rest of the house. He started in Stewart’s bedroom. The bed was a neatly made double, plain blue comforter that looked worn on the corner, and there was a dog eared copy of the Silmarillion on the pillow. Tommy Hilfiger and DKNY and Calvin Klein, six pairs of jeans and six pairs of dress pants, 10 polos and no less than 21 graphic tees, which seemed excessive to Arthur. 

Then it was on to the kitchen and the empty refrigerator, to the Charles Shaw wine, and the Oreos and Doritos in the pantry. He found mismatched mugs and pristine plates in the cabinets. Arthur briefly visited the TV again, to see the recently viewed on Netflix, the Witcher and the Office, nothing exciting there. 

And then Arthur moved to the office, with it’s bookshelves full of paperbacks and the safe hidden underneath a chair, to the laptop with it’s surprising lack of a password. He went through the browser history (lots of Wikipedia and YouTube and no porn). Arthur checked the email, but that was all ads and spam. Stewart came home to him scrolling through the photos. There were thousands of pictures, and Arthur found them fascinating, that Stewart had this whole life, documented in a way they had never documented anything. There were pictures of Stewart in his brother’s wedding, of some sort of squealing infant, a graduation ceremony, of Stewart out with friends in bars and restaurants, and on leave. There were a large number of pictures of cacti, suggesting that Stewart liked to hike. But there were none of Arthur, and Arthur was certain someone had to have taken at least one. 

“Arthur?” Stewart asked from the doorway after a minute of watching. 

Arthur had known he was there, but glanced up briefly at his name. There were still hundreds of files to look through, although he didn’t expect to find much. “Why am I here, Stewart?” 

“I told you, there was an accident--” 

But Arthur was cutting him off with a shake of the head. “No. We’re not fucking, we’re not even friends. So why you? Why here?” 

“They thought it would be better for you if you were with someone you remembered.” 

Ah, the ever present ‘They.’ “Why not my sister or mom?” 

“The PASIV program is classified, and the experiment you were involved in even more so. Your family doesn’t know.” 

“Jesus!” Arthur slammed the lid down. “So, I’m stuck with you trying to remember a life that no one can tell me about. That you can’t tell me about, and we don’t even know each other anymore. That’s fucked up.” 

“I’m sorry, Arthur.” At least he had the decency to look away. 

“Yeah?” Arthur stood up. “Tell that to someone who knows what you’re sorry for.” He shoved past Stewart and actually did stomp his feet into his room. He really was reverting to a petulant teenager! So Arthur did what he’d done at seventeen, he pulled those heavy as shit boots out of the closet because he couldn’t possibly run in those paper shoes from the hospital. Stewart watched him from the door of the office but didn’t stop him. 

And Arthur ran, the moment his feet touched the sidewalk. He didn’t warm up with a few stretches, he didn’t start off at a leisurely jog, he ran with every bit of strength he had. His feet smacked the pavement with enough force that his bones echoed with it. He ran until his lungs screamed for oxygen, until his legs trembled, until the dry air chapped his face. He ran until his mind went blank and he didn’t have to think. He ran until he was afraid he’d hurt himself. 

And then he collapsed in the sand of someone else’s yard, still warm from the sunshine all day. The heat sank into his skin, dry, parched, and Arthur thought of humidity and shirts sticking in sweat, and that oppressive feeling. It wasn’t like that here, the sweat evaporated before it’d had a change to form. He laid there, motionless, eyes open and staring at the sky which was shifting blue to orange to pink to purple to night. He looked at the stars, so bright in the desert, and when he finally felt that his eyes might be dry from the tears he hadn’t wanted to think about, Arthur stood, dusted sand off his pants, and walked back to Stewart’s house. 

Stewart was waiting in the living room, box of pizza cooling on the coffee table, the Great British Baking show on Netflix. He stood up when Arthur appeared in the entryway. “I wasn’t sure you were going to come back.” 

“Where else am I going to go?” It hadn’t escaped Arthur’s notice that he didn’t even have an ID. 

He ate greasy pizza and watched strangers be judged on their culinary skills and tried not to feel anything. And after less than twenty minutes, Arthur went for a shower and then crawled into the strange bed. He fell asleep almost immediately, the sleep of those too exhausted to do anything else. 

He did not dream. 

*

Eames did not think about that kiss with Arthur often, but he did think about celebrating at the pub with them the next night, after Cobb had personally met with the client to deliver the information. It was the night that Eames learned Arthur didn’t meet with clients, not if he could help it, and he wanted to live alone. But he and Cobb spent so much time traveling or working that it didn’t make sense for him to buy a house. He spent a lot of time crashing on their couch or in an extended stay motel. 

He caught up with Arthur on the pavement walking towards the pub. Parking had been horrid. Arthur looked good, in his brown checked shirt and leather jacket, and the air was reasonably warm and pleasantly not raining. Eames smiled brightly, “Hello!” 

Arthur paused in his walk for Eames to make his way over. “Bet you ten bucks Cobb’s there and sitting outside.” 

“It’s quid dear, this is England.” 

Arthur shot him a sly look, “I’ll give you ten quid, you give me ten bucks.” 

“No deal. I exchanged all those bills when I got back last year. First round?” 

“Deal.” They shook on it just as they came up to the pub. 

Eames was certain Arthur would win, after all, they worked together, Arthur had to know Cobb better then Eames did. But he never minded buying the first round. People always remembered who bought the first round and the most recent round, but all those other rounds got lost in the shuffle. It was an easy way to get out of buying any more, especially with a bigger group. And they could see Cobb outside, still in his coat, absorbed in his phone. 

Arthur chuckled a little at the sight. “Mal’s just found out she’s pregnant again. I’m going to remind her it’s your turn to be the godfather.” 

“You are not!” Eames said, horrified at the thought. “What would I do with a sprog?” 

Arthur shrugged, “Same thing I do with them? Let them run around and terrorize the house, feed them something terrible and full of sugar, and then hand them back to their parents.” 

Eames laughed. “And that is probably why all your nieces and nephews love you, and your siblings hate you.” 

“None of those for me.” Arthur held open the door and then followed Eames inside. 

“What? Nieces and nephews or siblings?” 

“My sister’s too young for kids. She’s only sixteen.” 

“That’s old enough,” Eames pointed out. 

“Please never point that out to me again,” Arthur said angrily, and Eames saw his hand twitch slightly. 

“I suppose you’re the type to threaten with a shotgun, aren’t you?” 

Arthur shrugged again. They were sitting down at the table with Cobb, and Eames sensed the family talk was done for the night. Which was fine; he hadn’t expected to learn about the sister at all. “First round’s on me,” Eames said, sliding in on the empty side, leaving Arthur to decide who to sit next to. 

“Mal just sent me ultrasound pictures,” Cobb said, and Arthur took the seat next to Eames, catty corner from Cobb. Cobb held out his phone so everyone could admire the newest Cobb. 

Arthur did not lean in too close to see, but Eames did, having never seen a picture of a sprog in utero. “I hate to break it to you, Cobb, but you are not having a baby. That there is most definitely a sea anemone.” 

Arthur laughed loudly at that, and Eames loved the sound. 

Cobb tucked his phone away with a scowl and changed the topic. “So, how do you know Countess Violet March and her husband?” 

So Arthur really hadn’t told Cobb? “I’m a patron of the arts, just like them. We’ve met at several auctions and a special event at the National Gallery.” 

The conversation drifted from there. Apparently Arthur had season tickets for the Los Angeles Philharmonic and took Mal whenever they were both in town. They talked a little business, mostly gossip about other people, but Eames enjoyed the salacious details. 

Cobb mentioned an upcoming meeting with a potential client, and Arthur rolled his eyes. “Please tell me it isn’t Janice Waltsworth.” 

“It is,” Cobb said gravely and Arthur groaned loudly and tipped back in his chair. He’d just finished his second pint and was loose limbed and easy without being drunk. 

“Who is Janice Waltsworth?” 

Arthur groaned again. “She’s all talk and no action, wants to meet with us every four or five months to ‘discuss’ the opportunity which never pans out.” He looked at his empty glass and then shoved it across the table at Cobb. 

Cobb laughed to himself. “You just don’t like her because she’s handsy.” 

“She goes straight for the inseam. Seriously!” 

And Eames laughed. “Well, wear a ring, spin a story about a new love. See if that puts her off.” 

Arthur glared darkly at the table. “I hate meeting with clients. I don’t see why I have to go at all.” 

Cobb’s phone buzzed on the table. “Nine. We should be heading back to the hotel Arthur.” Then he looked at Eames. “Early flight tomorrow.” 

“Ah,” replied Eames. 

But Arthur didn’t get up. “I think I’m going to stay a little longer.” 

Cobb shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you back at the hotel then.” 

Eames waited until Cobb disappeared around the corner before saying, “You know he thinks we’re going to have sex.” 

Arthur shrugged. “I’ve been with him almost every waking minute for the last three weeks. He can think whatever he wants as long as he goes away.” 

“Trouble in paradise?” 

“No,” Arthur sighed. “But sometimes I feel like we’re living out of each other’s pockets and I’d like a little space to just breath.” 

They were both quiet for a moment, and then Arthur changed the subject. “You grew up in a very picturesque home.” 

“I am sure you have your own white picket fence.” 

“I don’t go home much.” He stretched his long legs under the table. “Went from living with my mom to the army to living on Cobb’s couch.” 

“It’s a sofa, love. Couch is such a vulgar word.” 

Arthur smiled, a soft one that crinkled his eyes. “We work too much now, never seems like a good time to buy a place of my own.” 

“It does seem that Cobb is a nose to grindstone type of person.” 

“It’s good to work,” Arthur said. Somehow they had drifted into more maudlin conversation, and Eames wasn’t sure how they got there or how to get out again. “I like your mom,” Arthur said, diving head first into the maudlin. “She loves you.” 

“Ah, so she read you the riot act.” 

“She cares, and that’s nice.” Arthur stood. “I think I am going for a long walk. It’s been a nice evening, Mr. Eames.” 

“You too, Arthur.” Eames saluted him with the dregs of his pint. 

And those were the last words they exchanged for six months.


	4. Chapter 4

Arthur slept for what felt like an age. His body felt stiff, almost sore from not moving for a long time, and Arthur moved slowly to wake up all his muscles. Some light snuck in through the closed curtains of the room, and Arthur blinked wearily for a moment before closing his eyes and going back to sleep. Stewart came in and woke him in the early afternoon. “Arthur?” He said from the door, and then waited for Arthur to roll over and open his eyes. “I need to practice at the gun range this afternoon. Do you want to come with me?” 

“What?” Arthur rubbed the sleep from his face and tried to remember where he was. 

“I’m going out for a little bit. I, uh, I made you an appointment with a therapist for this afternoon. Maybe talking to someone will help you remember.” 

“Uh-huh.” Arthur wasn’t really listening. He was taking an inventory. His muscles were sore, probably from the running, possibly from the hard sleep. Nothing that a hot shower and some stretching wouldn’t fix. “What time is it?” The black out curtains in Stewart’s spare bedroom did a very good job. 

“Just after 1pm.” 

Which put him at about fifteen hours of sleep. He hadn’t slept like that--well, as far as he knew--since he was a teenager. Arthur pulled himself out from under the blankets, and shuffled over to the mirror to look at himself. It was the first time he had really done so. Maybe he should have been surprised at his reflection, but he looked exactly as old as he felt. His eyes were crusted over with mucus from sleeping, and he still looked tired, that deep exhaustion that only comes from running yourself ragged for far too long. Why had he done that? 

“Did you hear me?” Stewart asked, and Arthur registered the tone as one part concern and two parts irritation. He didn’t pay attention to the words. 

“Is there coffee?” 

“Sure.” Arthur saw Stewart roll his eyes in the mirror. “I’ll be back before four to take you to that appointment.” And then he was leaving. 

Arthur started with coffee, read through the Economist on the table. There was a long article about Fischer Morrow breaking up, speculation as to why, one short statement from Robert Fischer about building something new. When he got to the end, Arthur read the whole article again and registered a lot of mixed feelings. A sort of strange pleasure and some trepidation. But why? 

Instead of dwelling, Arthur went back to the kitchen and made scrambled eggs with some frozen vegetables from the freezer. It was a shitty substitute for an omelet, but the pizza hadn’t sat well. He ate it quickly with another cup of coffee before going for a shower. 

He stripped down while the water was warming. There was a long thin scar that ran across his chest, not from a deep wound, but it had certainly bled. Craning his neck, Arthur could see a knotted scar in his shoulder that had to be from a bullet. And then on his right thigh there was a jagged thing that ran about five inches. Arthur ran his fingers over that one, imagined sloppy stitches as his middle finger worked up and down the length of it. 

“Work the problem, don’t borrow trouble from tomorrow.” He would worry about what the scars meant after he remembered how he got them. 

Arthur climbed into the hot shower and let the water drum out the pain in his muscles. He closed his eyes, washed his hair, scrubbed his body, and then stood there until the water ran cold. 

_A bit too much free champagne?_

He turned off the water, wrapped himself in a towel and went back to his room, dripping the whole way. Picking clothes presented a new problem, as Arthur hated absolutely everything in that closet. Sweat pants and jeans and uniforms. Eventually, he took out the two pairs of jeans he hated the least and tried them on. The first was completely unacceptable, some horrible cut from a discount retailer. The second pair was worn soft with wear, which Arthur didn’t care for, someone else’s clothes, but the fit was better. They didn’t bunch up when he sat, and the drape of the leg sat nicely against his feet. 

Shirts were a whole different problem. Arthur closed his eyes and ran his hands across the fabric. Cheap, cheap, polyester. Cotton, but too heavy. He touched every shirt twice to find the least offensive, a white Calvin Klein button down with blue pinstripes. Arthur hated it, but it was better than nothing. 

He looked through the dresser for boxers and undershirts. There weren’t any. And only those thick regulation socks to go with the boots. “Fuck,” Arthur swore quietly. If he and Stewart had been fucking, he might have gone and raided his clothes, but they weren’t and Arthur wasn’t about to borrow sometime so intimate from a practical stranger. 

He put on the horrible socks and boots, and looked down at them. He tried and failed not to hate everything about it. 

He didn’t have much time for that as Stewart was opening the front door and calling for him. Arthur instinctively pulled up his cuff to check the time only to realize that he must normally wear a watch. It was shit to learn things about himself only because of their absence, even if it was as small as a watch. 

Stewart had been to the gun range, Arthur realized as soon as he stepped into the entryway and could smell him. There was no mistaking the scent of gunpowder as faint as it might have been. When Arthur got closer, he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent deeply, as if just by smelling it he could make the world right. 

“You should come with me next time,” Stewart said, and Arthur stepped back, slightly embarrassed. 

Something about the smell of gunpowder. It was comforting, familiar, almost routine. And at the same time, it was provocative, heady--intoxicating. Arthur realized he wanted to chase that scent down streets and corridors, through fields and forests, on boats and in cars. As if gunpowder were as vital as the blood that pumped through Arthur propelling him ever forward. “Yeah, maybe.” His mind was too busy flitting from thought to thought: smoke wafting from the barrel of a sig, the thrumming in his ears, pain slicing through his knee, a pretty smile. It wouldn’t settle on anything except for the need to have something in his hand. 

“Are you ready?” 

“Sure,” Arthur said absently. 

“What are you thinking?” Stewart’s voice was soft, melodious almost, a soothing backdrop that managed, somehow, to shatter the endless circle of thoughts (a Heckler and Koch, honking cars, glass shattering, a different pretty smile) in Arthur’s head. 

“What?” He snapped out of his head. 

“You looked lost in thought.” 

“Oh.” But Arthur didn’t elaborate. 

Stewart waited for a heartbeat, and Arthur realized he was waiting for Arthur to share what had been on his mind, but those thoughts were gone like leaves on the wind. 

“Where are we going?” he asked instead. 

“Therapy. Maybe talking will help.” He turned swiftly, and Arthur couldn’t be sure if he saw Stewart roll his eyes or not. 

They drove in silence. Arthur stared at the window at the houses and buildings and sand and thought of nothing. Apparently, the therapist’s office was in the hospital. Arthur noticed the cameras, the locks on the doors, the armed security. It was nothing he hadn’t seen before during other trips for medical care at other bases. He looked at the name tags and faces, observed the white coats over the fatigues, inhaled the smell of antiseptic and bleach and death. But no one was dying. 

Stewart led Arthur straight down the first hall, and Arthur wondered how he knew where to go. Was he a patient, too? What was Stewart’s life before Arthur had shown up? 

The walls of the office were a pale, pale pink with blue upholstered chairs that someone thought “looked” comfortable, but Arthur had his doubts. More terrible hotel art. Stewart approached the desk to check Arthur in and get the necessary paperwork. Arthur tried not to hate him. 

As Arthur watched from his perch near the door, Stewart actually started to fill out the papers, and Arthur imagined punching him. Apparently, the heat of his glare was palpable, because Stewart slowly put the pen under the clip, slowly turned around, and slowly held out the clipboard. Arthur didn’t reach out immediately. He stood there, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed and assessed the threat that was Stewart. 

He could handle a gun, and he had a weight advantage. But Arthur doubted he had much experience in hand to hand combat, unless that gut was intended as a disguise rather than too much wine. Arthur might have to work for it, not underestimate this opponent, but he was fairly confident he could best Stewart if needed. 

“Sorry.” 

Arthur took the papers and filled in the answers standing upright by the door. There were no less than three pages of questions, and he did not know the answers to most of them. Any history of depression/anxiety/thoughts of suicide? How was he to know? Arthur wrote, “not that I know of” a lot. 

It took him two tries to get his social security number right. 

After a few minutes, a woman in her mid fifties with brown hair in a severe bun and equally severe pantsuit called his name. 

Arthur gave up his leaning and shot an irritated glance at Stewart who remained seated. “I’m Marissa,” she said, holding out a hand for Arthur to shake--she had a firm grip that Arthur respected--and then led him down the hall. There were six doors, all closed. She opened the last one on the left and held it for Arthur. Arthur wasn’t sure how he felt about that. 

Inside the room she had a glass table for a desk, and Arthur wondered if it was supposed to represent transparency. No windows, a small brown leather couch ( _sofa_ ). Arthur liked the brightly patterned rug as it reminded him of a starburst. More hotel art. 

“Have a seat.” She gestured towards the couch ( _sofa_ ) while moving to sit at her own desk. Arthur shook his head and paced absently through the small office instead. “Would you like to tell me what’s going on?” 

Arthur paced back over to the door and leaned against the wall again. “I have amnesia.” 

Marissa nodded. “How much time are you missing?” 

“Five years.” 

“How do you feel about that?” 

“Frustrated.” 

“Would you like to talk about it?” 

“That’s why I’m here, isn’t it?” 

She nodded again and smiled a little. “It does mean you’ll have to talk.” 

“I don’t know what to say.” 

“We could start with some of the things frustrating you.” 

Arthur took a deep breath and looked down at his hands tucked deep in those shitty pockets. He caught sight of those awful boots. “These clothes for starters.” 

“Really?” She looked him up and down, but didn’t offer an opinion. “What’s wrong with them?” 

“Where to start?” Arthur looked down again, and then he talked about the fabric and the cut, the color and the way they felt against his skin. He complained about having only one pair of shoes, combat boots which didn’t go with anything other than fatigues, and no underwear. He confessed to not wearing any at the moment and how he felt underdressed and unprepared. And at the end of an hour, he summed it all up in, “There isn’t a single thing in that house that’s mine.” 

“That is frustrating,” she agreed, “that’s something to work on between now and Tuesday.” 

“We didn’t talk about my amnesia,” Arthur pointed out. 

Marissa smiled. “There isn’t a magic wand to make your memories come back no matter how you might want them to. But, I can help you cope with not having them. And having something that’s yours will help you feel more at ease in this brave new world.” 

They walked back to the lobby together where Stewart was reading the Oprah Magazine. He looked up when Arthur reappeared. “Well?” He asked in an entirely too hopeful tone of voice. 

“I have homework.” Arthur scowled and stormed towards the door, leaving Stewart to play catch-up. 

Which he did just outside the front doors. “What homework?” 

“Shopping. I need to buy clothes,” Arthur answered without breaking stride. 

They both climbed into the car, and Stewart drove them to the BX where Arthur scowled his way up and down aisles hating everything. Stewart continued to trail after him, and tried, just once, to suggest a shirt which was met with such a withering expression that he chose to sit outside the fitting rooms instead. 

After over an hour, Arthur reappeared with a pair of running shoes, one package each of athletic socks, undershirts and boxer briefs. “I don’t have any money,” he said to the wall behind Stewart. 

“I do. Didn’t you want shirts or pants?” 

“No.” 

And wisely, Stewart did not ask any follow-up questions. “We can go shopping this weekend maybe.” They paid for their purchases and went home where Stewart made mac and cheese from the box which Arthur only ate because he hadn’t eaten since the eggs over six hours ago. 

“Um, I’m not really sure how to bring this up, so I’m just gonna say it. But maybe the PASIV can help. We can go to the lab tomorrow morning and try. Maybe we can learn something from your subconscious.” 

Arthur watched the noodles dribble off of his fork. “Sure. Whatever.” Abruptly, he stood and dumped the bowl in the sink. “I’m going to bed.” He spent the rest of the evening trying to read _1984_ and hating everything. 

* 

Violet preferred to celebrate her birthday quietly, at home, with just family. When Eames had been younger, they would dismiss the staff for the evening, his father would cook, and they would all joke about Chef Carbon and Eames would talk in an outrageous French accent that would have everyone in stitches by the end of the evening. Because, Eames could speak French perfectly. 

Last year, Eames had taken over the cooking, and they had a wonderful meal of boxed pasta and bagged salad (he’d decided not to risk meat). But this year, Eames had been practicing, and was upping the anti with homemade lasagna, bagged salad, and frozen garlic bread. He brought all the groceries into the house and immediately saw the large display of roses on the entry table, with a little card that read, Happy Birthday A. 

He set the groceries on the floor, and picked up the card for a clue. He hadn’t thought about Arthur much in the last few months, but here, on the entryway table was evidence that Arthur had been thinking about him--or at least his mum. 

There was nothing else on the card. 

But his mobile was ringing in his pocket. Absently, still holding the card, Eames fished in his pocket for his mobile. 574-555-8697, “Speak of the devil and he shall appear,” Eames muttered answering the phone. “Arthur.” 

“Good evening, Eames.” His voice sounded tired. 

“To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

Arthur sighed. “Don’t take the Munich job.” 

Eames didn’t even bother to ask how Arthur knew about that. For a brief moment he did consider asking why, but the truth was he was on the fence about the job to begin with. He’d worked with Alexander in the past and it had been a clusterfuck. If Arthur was calling to say no, then that was enough reason for Eames. 

And then he realized something. Apparently, in just a few short interactions, he had come to trust Arthur, trust him enough to turn down Forging work without asking a single question. Trust him enough that he didn’t see anything wrong with Arthur sending his mother flowers. He’d never trusted anyone like that before. 

“I won’t do it then. Thanks, darling.” He hung up the phone. 

“Who was that?” Violet asked, coming out of the front parlor. 

“Arthur.” Eames looked at her, at the slight widening of her eyes, at the way those same eyes flickered to the flowers and then back to Eames. And then it registered, and Eames felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. 

“I didn’t know you were so serious about him,” Violet said softly. 

Eames had called Arthur darling. He’d called Arthur other pet names: love, dear, pet, etc. But never darling, darling was different. Darling was what his parents called each other. Eames was fucked. And then he laughed, that painful humorless laugh, because Eames was fucked and they hadn’t fucked.


	5. Chapter 5

Apparently the dream lab was in the hospital, area B eighth floor. And once again, Stewart knew exactly where he was going, no need to ask directions or consult signs. Was it possible he’d been given the directions by someone over the phone? Or was he somehow involved in the project? 

There was no waiting room, and they walked straight into the lab. There was a silver briefcase in the center on a small rolling table in the middle of the room, surrounded by five reclining chairs. And Arthur counted eight people in the room, five medical staff and three Senior Airmen. His hand twitched at the sight of the briefcase, and Arthur felt a sense of longing and fear that very nearly had him rushing out of the room. 

He stumbled as he crossed the floor to touch the case. 

And Stewart was right there next to him, hand on his shoulder asking, “Did you remember something?” 

Arthur shook his head, but his hands seemed to know what to do. He flicked open the case and looked inside, looked over the circular components, the vials of liquid, the long IV lines spooled inside. He ran his fingers along the edges of the case instinctively knowing not to touch the components without washing his hands, trying to make sense of thoughts that wouldn’t coalesce. 

“Are you sure?” 

Arthur nodded. “This is a PASIV, isn’t it?” He forced himself to straighten, to remove his fingers from it, but he couldn’t stop staring. There was half a handcuff still attached to the handle. “What does it do?” 

Stewart was nodding. “This is the Portable Automated Somnacin IntraVenous device. It connects a group of Dreamers into the same Scenario. We’ve had an architect, Matthews, design a maze and you will be the subject and fill the maze with your subconscious. This will allow us to go into your mind and find out what happened.” 

Something cold curled in Arthur’s stomach. “What happened last time?” 

Stewart opened his mouth to speak, but it was one of the Senior Airmen who spoke. He was tall and burly, arms crossed and Arthur could hear the deep frown in his voice. 

“Your subconscious ripped us to shreds.” 

“Why?” Arthur turned to him. 

But Stewart was the one who answered. “It’s a common defense mechanism of the brain.” 

“But if we were all involved in the experiment, then shouldn’t I have known and been able to control that reaction?” Arthur asked, that cold feeling getting bigger and harder, settling like a stone. 

“Yes. That's part of what went wrong, now, let’s get this started.” Stewart flicked his hand roughly towards the chairs, and the medical staff came over with alcohol wipes. 

Arthur watched as his nurse gently swabbed the inside of his elbow and inserted the IV. He looked at his other arm, at the mark that had faded from his elbow there. If he concentrated, Arthur could imagine a matching set. It probably looked like he had a serious drug problem, maybe they should be doing this between the toes. 

Once everyone was hooked into the machine, Arthur’s nurse pressed the plunger on the PASIV and Arthur was alone in a record shop. 

Hard concrete floor, tall windows, a door with a bell. He ambled idly over to the nearest wooden bin, scuffed and scratched from use, to riffle through the records. There was one that caught his attention, something called Tank! with a brightly colored spaceship on the cover. And then behind that was a two disc record, Miscellaneous by Edith Piaf which was clearly misfiled. Arthur held it in his hand and turned to find the appropriate bin only to be confronted by a truly gorgeous blond in a stunning red dress. 

“I can take that for you, darling.” She smiled and put her hand on Arthur’s arm. 

Her hand was warm through his shirt sleeve, and her smile was soft--the kind that pinched the cheeks up and put the tiniest of crow's feet around the eyes. That cold feeling in Arthur’s stomach unclenched for the first time in his memory. “Julia,” Arthur breathed in what he was pretty sure was relief. 

Her smile grew, lit up her face from the inside out. If Arthur had thought she was beautiful before--with her porcelain skin and soft curls--she was utterly stunning now, and he was starting to question his sexuality a little bit. 

“Oh, darling,” she ran her hand up his arm to his cheek, thumb stroking lightly and doing funny things to Arthur’s insides. “I’m just trying to protect you.” 

Arthur didn’t notice the Heckler and Koch until she pressed against his forehead and fired. 

He woke with a gasp and ripped out the IV, jerked to standing only to have the nurse push him back down into the chair. “Relax Arthur, you’re alright, you’re awake now. Take deep breaths. Calm, it’s okay.” 

But Arthur was still gasping, taking in the reality of the hospital room. 

“Can you tell me what happened?” she asked. 

The others were starting to wake up. One, Matthews Arthur remembered, was vomiting off the side of his chair. The medical staff were hurrying around removing lines, checking vitals, holding those small pans. Stewart ripped out his own line just as Arthur had. “What the hell happened in there?!” 

He looked over the whole team, and then his eyes landed on Arthur. “Arthur,” He knelt down next to his chair and softened his tone. “What happened?” 

“She shot me,” Arthur said. 

Stewart turned to look at the rest of his team. 

“God, you’re a violent fuck, you know that?” The big guy said before storming out of the lab. 

_No one wants to feel someone else messing around in their mind._

“I did that?” Arthur asked, already knowing the answer. “I killed all of them?” 

Stewart didn’t answer, he was already moving out into the hall to talk to the man out there. Matthews was the one who looked at Arthur and said, “Yeah, and you. Your own subconscious shot you too.” 

Arthur looked at the PASIV but he saw Julia, her pink lips and pale skin, her bright blond hair that emphasized all the soft curves of her. Her lilting voice, he’d wanted her. The interaction had been short, and he was very gay, but still Arthur had wanted her. “The projections, they're just my subconscious? Do they always look like people?” 

Matthews nodded. “Yeah, they can be anyone, but they’re always people you’ve seen.” 

Had Arthur seen Julia in real life and wanted her too? 

Stewart was back in the room, rubbing his hands together. “We’ll meet later today to discuss next steps. Clearly Arthur still feels under attack, and we will need to come up with some new ideas to deal with that. Perhaps we need to create a more direct route to the safe.” 

“I don’t know how much more direct you can get than a straight hall.” Matthews scowled. 

“But none of us made it down the hall.” Stewart glared. 

“Maybe we need a new approach altogether.” 

Stewart ignored that comment and came over to Arthur. “Tell me what you remember.” 

“Aren’t I attending the debriefing?” Arthur asked, suddenly certain that there was a lot more going on here then anyone was telling him. 

Stewart rubbed his face. “Arthur, as the subject, you can’t know. It would potentially compromise the operation.” 

Yeah, maybe. “Fine. I was in a record shop.” 

“Did you put a record shop in there?” Stewart demanded of Matthews. 

“You asked for a city. I put in a lot of shops.” 

“Alright, what was in the shop.” 

Arthur paused to remember, he’d been holding a record and then there had been the blond woman, Julia, and she had said--what had she said? I’m just trying to protect you. Protect him from what? “Records. I don’t really remember. And then there was a blond. She shot me.” 

“Alright,” Stewart sighed. “I think that’s it for today. Let’s go.” 

This time he was the one storming out of the room, stomping and slamming doors and scowling. It had a disturbingly calming effect on Arthur who trailed behind at a leisurely pace. The elevator ride was tense, and just before they arrived at the first floor, the elevator did that slight rise and fall that always made Arthur feel like he was involuntarily jumping. For a single moment, Arthur thought he was floating. 

And then they were out of the elevator, and Stewart was taking the hallway as if it were a personal affront to his life, and Arthur fell behind, thinking about cocktails and gambling, poker and craps, wondering what it would be like to visit a casino. 

Stewart was clenching his fist in the driver’s seat when Arthur finally climbed into the car. He drove, white knuckled and feet mashing the pedals to the floor, all the way to the gun range. “Hope you don’t mind,” he said trying to park. “I’m a little agitated.” 

Arthur shrugged, and followed him into the range. Once inside, he didn’t pay any attention to Stewart, instead Arthur looked at the guns. His eyes trailed over the rifles, pausing only briefly to consider the FN SCAR-L and the Milkor MGL. And then on to the hand guns, the sigs, the berettas, the Heckler and Koch pistols gave Arthur pause until he saw the Glock 17. The smooth lines of it, the glossy finish, the gentle slope of the butt. He stood and looked for long minutes, fingers twitching. 

“Do you want to try it?” 

Arthur shook his head, but he could imagine the weight of it, the sound, the recoil, he ached to hold it. Ached to fire it. And he knew without touching it that if he did, he wouldn’t want to let it go, that handing it back to the man behind the counter would cause him heart palpitations, fortify an unease that was already trickling up his spine. “No.” 

He turned away from the counter and went to watch Stewart empty round after round after round into the target until the tension drained from his shoulders and the sweat seeped through his shirt. Arthur breathed in the scent of gunpowder and thought of nothing at all. 

Eventually, Stewart lowered the gun and took off his ear protection. He looked at his target, considered the accuracy of his shots, and turned to Arthur. “Do you want a turn?” Arthur shook his head no. If he was going to shoot, then it was going to be that Glock. 

Stewart checked the time. “Lunch?” 

“Sure.” 

They went for tacos, and then Stewart took Arthur back to the house. “I think it’s better if you don’t know what we’re planning. I’ll make sure you know anything you need to know,” he said and then left. 

Arthur stood in the entryway and considered his options before deciding to shower. Something about all the time with Stewart had made him feel dirty, and dirty in a way that he hadn’t realized until Stewart was gone. And besides he wanted to think. 

He turned the water up as hot as he could stand, stripped down, and climbed in. It beat down on his head, hot drops steamed the air and made things seem hazy. A steady beat, the splash on tile, and heat. A heat that burned along his scalp and scalded his back and raced down his legs, and Arthur thought about that heat, about the way his skin turned red in it, about the way the water drowned out any other sounds. Arthur fell into those sensations, into the noise and the heat and the rest of the world dropped away until he could hear it. 

_I’m just trying to protect you._

“From what?” 

_Don’t think about elephants._

“Why?” 

Why would his subconscious need to protect him? Arthur ducked his head and felt the water hit his neck, lost himself in the sensation again, waited for the thoughts to bubble up on their own, tried not to force them, like the leaf on the water, let them circle round and round until he could lean down and snatch one up. 

_They want what you know._

And that was the rub wasn’t it, nobody knew what Arthur knew. Not even Arthur. 

* 

Eames mostly kept in touch with Arthur via mobile after that. Nothing drastic or terribly long, usually a few texts exchanged every few weeks or a short phone call with a quick question and a short update on their lives. 

Arthur mailed Eames’s father a new piano score for his birthday, and tickets to the opera for their anniversary. Eames periodically texted Arthur property listings for increasingly ridiculous places: a flat in Dubai, a mansion in Hollywood, a hotel in London went up for sale and Eames suggested it would feel the most like home to someone who lived out of hotels. He sent a listing for a yurt just because, and there was an abandoned town for sale in Montana because it had plenty of space away from everyone. 

Occasionally Arthur called, his voice was almost always tired but warm, and he called at odd hours, almost always catching voicemail. His messages went along the lines of this, “Just finished a job in Kyoto. God, that was a shit show. Fucking chemist had a bad batch. We went down two levels though. They get unstable when you go that low. The projections usually find you. I hate it. Remember that easy job we did in London, with Delmer. I wish they were all like that. It was nice at the pub. Wish we could get a pint.” 

Eames left messages like this one, “Oh darling, I heard about that job you pulled in Paris. Fine work that, but you should have hopped the channel. I know just the place to take you for a nice evening out. We could have celebrated. Take care of yourself, darling, you sounded a bit ragged in your last message. The roses are missing you.” Which was code for his parents. 

For about three years that was the dance they did. Until Arthur went on radio silence for two months, and then called suddenly in the middle of the morning while Eames was enjoying a cup of tea on his balcony. 

He answered on the fourth ring. “Arthur?” 

“Eames, I thought you might not answer.” 

“Why wouldn’t I answer?” Eames took his tea inside and sat down on the sofa. 

“I-No reason. Just the way things have been going recently.” His voice was tightly controlled and stilted with the effort. 

It set off alarms for Eames. “What’s going on? 

“Can you come out to Mexico City?” 

“You need a forger?” 

“No, extraction.” 

“What about Cobb?” 

“Cobb can’t do it. The job’s simple enough, I just need another person.” 

Eames put his cup down on the side table. Why couldn’t Cobb do the extraction? And Mexico City? Yeah, sure there were probably some legal jobs there, but there were still the drug lords, and that was a lot of risk even on the legal side. Hell, Eames thought, it was probably safer to do the illegal work. 

“Please, Eames. You’re the only one I trust,” Arthur said when the silence dragged on too long. 

And if that didn’t just knock the wind out of Eames. “Tell me what’s wrong, Arthur.” 

Arthur let out a huge sigh, as if he’d just collapsed into his chair. “Mal’s dead. Suicide, eight weeks ago.” 

“When do you need me?” 

A day later, Arthur picked Eames up from the airport. He didn’t ask, just picked up Eames’s suitcase from baggage claim and stormed back to the rental. Eames walked frequently, and was able, when the occasion called for it, to jog at a decent pace. But he was gasping for breath trying to keep up with Arthur. At the car, Arthur took pains to carefully place the suitcase in the trunk and open the passenger door for Eames before taking the driver’s seat as if storming the castle. 

The drive was a long, silent affair, where Arthur gripped the wheel painfully and bristled visibly at every other driver on the road. He squealed into the parking lot of an abandoned strip mall and in one fluid motion of the car backed into the closest parking space to the door. 

He turned off the car and sat, hands still wrapped around the steering wheel, but loosely now, uncertainly. He was breathing hard, and Eames paused to wonder if it was adrenaline or grief. He put a hand on Arthur’s arm, and Arthur let out a ragged breath. 

“I’m here, we’re here. What’s the mission?” Because while they may not have spent a lot of actual time in each other’s company, Eames knew Arthur, could see how he was fraying at the edges, could feel the tension rolling off of him. And right now, what Arthur needed more than anything else was a mission. 

By the end of the whole thing, Eames didn’t even remember the name of the mark. All the extraction relevant details were wiped from his mind, and replaced with the way Arthur watered down the tequila that Cobb kept in hand. He remembered more Spanish, because he was the one speaking with the chemist (who’s name was also long gone). He remembered the stiffness in Arthur’s shoulders, and the way he sometimes stayed longer in the Dream just for the target practice. 

Eames helped burn all the evidence the night before the extraction, helped Arthur wipe down the stripmall of prints, bought the Krazy glue so no one would have to worry about wiping anything down if it went pear shaped the next day. 

He came back into the empty store front, bag in hand, and heard Arthur’s voice. “No, I understand.” 

Eames walked through the dark space to see Arthur hunched in his chair, one hand clutching the phone and the other pulling at the small hairs on the back of his neck. “Yes, of course. No, I’m-I’m not angry. You had to do what you had to do.” 

“God, Mara.” His whole body went slack, and the hand in his hair went to his face. “No, I can’t be there that soon. I’m-I’m working.” 

His shoulders tensed up again. “It’s not like that, Mara. I will be there as soon as I can. No, not tomorrow. I can try for the day after. It’ll-Yes, I’ll get there as soon as I can. No, I know. Please Mara, I promise I will be there as soon as I can. Yeah, good night.” He snapped the phone shut and buried his face in both hands, shoulders shaking up and down. 

Eames waited a moment because things like this didn’t just stop, they took time. He walked silently back to the door, opened it and let it shut loudly. He took heavy steps as he crossed the room and said firmly, “Oh, Arthur.” When he could see the light of the desk lamp. 

His shoulders weren’t shaking quite as badly, but his voice was broken when he said, “How much did you hear?” 

“Enough to know it’s personal.” Because lying was worthless right now. 

Arthur nodded and pressed the palms of his hands into his eyes hard for several moments. “Mara’s my sister. I’m going--I’ve got to--” His voice choked. 

“I can finish this here and see you back at the hotel. We’ll do the extraction tomorrow, and we will go to see your sister.” 

With a deep breath in and a long exhale, Arthur nodded. “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.” 

The extraction went off perfectly, like most things Arthur planned. If anything, grief had made him more exacting. He had the entire plan mapped out to the second, and it would have been a thing of beauty under any other circumstance. But all Eames could see were the lines on Arthur’s face, the bruises under his eyes which were still edged in red, and the way his eyes went a million miles deep when he looked at Cobb who had refused to fuck off, despite having absolutely nothing to do. 

Arthur and Eames went under, leaving the chemist and Cobb to keep watch, and the whole extraction was over in three minutes and twenty-three seconds, an impressive best for any of the four of them. 

As soon as Arthur’s eyes opened, the chemist was out the door, but then, it wasn’t like any of them stuck around much longer. Eames packed up the PASIV; he wasn’t as adept at it as Arthur or Cobb with their significant experience advantage, but he did a reasonable job. Arthur checked the mark, and then began a whispered conversation with Cobb that didn’t end until all three of them were standing next to the cars. 

Cobb said, “Fine, see you in France,” slammed his car door shut and sped down the road. Arthur watched him until he was out of sight, and then slowly opened the driver’s side door. 

Eames put his hand on Arthur’s arm. “I can drive the first stretch.” 

“You don’t know where we’re going.” At least he wasn’t arguing about Eames going with him. 

“The United States. And I can get us at least that far while you sleep.” 

Arthur nodded vaguely and stepped around to let Eames have the car. 

It was a mind numbing thirty-two hour drive to Tennessee city. They traded off sleeping and driving, and Eames heard more country music then he could possibly stand in one lifetime. They ate greasy drive-thru and stale gas station food. Arthur drank increasingly horrible coffee at each and every stop. 

They didn’t speak much, other than to ask about food or gas or a bathroom. And mostly, when he wasn’t driving, Eames tried to sleep. There was no knowing, at least for him, what waited in Tennessee. 

They were on the other side of Memphis when Arthur finally broke the silence. “It’s my mom. She took a nasty fall and is in the hospital.” He said the words nasty fall the same way other people said serial killer or pedophile, with a hatred that ran deeper than blood and bone, with a hatred that scarred souls and soured all good things in this world. 

And Eames thought about his mom, and the roses Arthur sent every year on her birthday. He thought about how nervous Arthur had been to meet Violet, how he had constantly been smoothing out invisible wrinkles and trying to tame his hair. He remembered how Violet had touched Arthur’s shoulder, and remembered the sudden stillness that Arthur had suffered under that touch. He remembered the reverent tone he had used when he’d said that Eames’s mother was kind. That he had called her kind, not beautiful, not nice, not charming, but kind. 

Maybe ‘nasty fall’ was synonymous with that deepest of evils. 

It was an odd moment for Eames. Because, yes, he trusted Arthur, yes knew Arthur would never do anything to harm his family, understood even before this that Arthur was a man who’s word meant something. But a part of him had always longed to have some sort of intimate knowledge of Arthur, just as Arthur had of him. He’d wanted to know that if it came to it, Eames had power over Arthur. 

He’d wanted Arthur’s vulnerabilities, wanted to even the playing field. But now, now that he knew, he didn’t feel even. He didn’t feel safer knowing Arthur’s weak points. 

Because those weak points were now his. 

Eames understood the flowers and the opera tickets and the carefully penned notes in a whole new way. They weren’t just kind gestures, or a way for Arthur to remind Eames that he knew, or even just gifts. They were penance. 

He swallowed, hard. “Do you want me to go in with you?” Because now that Eames was here, now that he knew, he couldn’t just unknow. It was too late for that. 

Arthur was silent for so long, Eames didn’t think he was ever going to answer. “I don’t know.” 

They finished the drive in silence, and Eames went with Arthur up to the room, but didn’t go in. He could have, he understood that. He understood that Arthur wanted him there and didn’t, just as Eames wanted Arthur to send his parents silly gifts and didn’t. But, somehow, this moment seemed more intimate. Arthur had seen his mother in her element, at her finest. It seemed right to give Arthur’s mother that same opportunity, for Eames to see her at her best. 

He lingered outside the open door and listened to the low murmurs, didn’t try to pick out words, but paid attention to Arthur’s tone in case he should need Eames. 

It was then that he met Mara. She looked like Arthur but not quite. Her hair was the same black, with the same curl and the same shine. They had the same mouth and the same brown eyes, but her nose was different, and there was something about her chin that didn’t match. She was much shorter with the palest skin that Eames had ever seen. She looked like snow white, he realized suddenly, with her hair as black as night and her skin as white as snow and her lips as red as blood. 

“Who are you?” she demanded, angry tilt to her head, Styrofoam coffee in one hand. 

In that moment, there was absolutely no doubt that she was Mara, she looked so much like Arthur, her tone was the same, she had the same murderous squint in her eyes, the same low growl in her throat. In the split second before actual violence occurred, Eames realized he had two choices, to brace himself for the onslaught or to treat her with the same cheer and lack of fear he had previously reserved for Arthur alone. “Eames, love. And you must be the wondrous Mara.” He wasn’t sure why he said Eames, except that he always said Eames when it was work and Arthur was work. 

Except when he wasn’t. 

Her eyes narrowed further, the same way Arthur’s did when assessing a low level threat. High level threats were easier to identify and thus instantly removed. “Why are you here?” 

And wasn’t that just an excellent question. Eames spared a glance in the room where Arthur was still deep in conversation with his mother. “Arthur let me?” He shrugged. 

“How come I’ve never heard Arthur talk about you?” 

And that was the first confirmation Eames had of a long held suspicion that Arthur was actually Arthur’s real name. Having it confirmed was a bit like taking a bullet to the chest through a bulletproof vest. “I know Arthur through work. I suppose he talks a lot about that, does he?” 

She was as easy to read as Arthur, a flurry of emotions crossed her face. 

“I could tell you about it, if you’d like to know,” Eames lied with just the right amount of disinterest. 

She pursed her lips in thought and then nodded. “You should come to dinner.” 

“Eames, I--Mara!” Arthur said, having finally finished in the room. 

The temperature of the entire hospital could have dropped ten degrees on the expression Mara gave Arthur. “Took you long enough.” 

“I got here as quick as I could.” 

Mara’s lower lips trembled just once. “Family, Arthur. You drop everything for family.” She flipped on her heel and stomped into the room, giving Eames the impression that Arthur had once said something very similar to her. 

Eames was the only one to see Arthur squeeze his eyes shut and collapse in on himself just slightly, just enough. It lasted only a moment though, not long enough for Eames to do any of the things that flashed across his mind (touch his shoulder, his arm, give a hug, pull Arthur in close so that nothing else could touch him, march into the room and demand an explanation from Mara--at gunpoint if necessary) before Arthur was standing up straight, squaring his shoulders and ready to take on the world. 

“Come on, I’ve got to make a stop.” 

They got back in the car and drove away from the hospital, through the small city center, into the trees. They drove for thirty minutes, again in silence, something classical on the radio, to a place Eames was certain had to have been the set for a horror film. The driveway was gravel, the trees huge and old with unpleasant undergrowth. And the house was set way back from the road. 

When he saw it, Eames was stunned and frightened, but mostly stunned. Because it was a lovely little house, with bright yellow paint and flower beds full of plants around the house. Baskets of mums hung around the front porch, roses crept up next to the steps, it was a gardener's paradise. 

“Did you grow up here?” Eames hadn’t meant to ask, but now that he had, he desperately wanted the answer. 

“We moved here when I was ten, when my mom met Bill.” 

Ah, Bill. “Mara’s father.” Because that would explain the age difference. 

“Yeah.” Arthur parked the car and sat for a moment, hands resting in his lap and staring at the house. “You don’t have to come in. It’s not like your family.” 

“Arthur,” Eames said with a suddenly too tight throat. “Family isn’t just blood, it’s the people you chose. You didn’t choose that man in there.” 

He inhaled through his nose and let a noisy breath out through his mouth. “No, I didn’t. But I’m not about to cut her out just to cut him.” Arthur undid his buckle and opened his door. 

Eames watched him walk to the trunk of the car and carefully reassemble the Glock he hadn’t seen outside of Dream Space. Arthur tucked it into the back of his pants, and they both took the stairs into the house. Inside the house was cozy, with a plush sofa piled high with knit blankets. The wooden floors were dusty, but in good shape. 

Arthur moved straight through the room to the kitchen behind with the sink piled high with dirty dishes and the table grimy with crumbs. The trash needed taking out and there were boxes and plastic wrappers littered across the small countertop. An old man slumped at the table, noisily slurping a bowl of what Eames could only assume was chili. 

“Get in here and wash those dishes, girl. They ain’t going to wash themselves.” He spit when he spoke. 

“Bill.” Arthur took a seat at the table. “What happened to Mom?” 

His gaze darted between Arthur and Eames still in the doorway. “You know your mother, always been clumsy.” 

“Never quite as clumsy as when you’re around though.” Arthur’s voice was like steel. 

“She fell, boy, nothing more.” 

“Mara said it was a nasty fall down the front steps.” 

His already small eyes got smaller, and he grabbed the spoon in his fist. “Like I said, she fell.” 

Arthur nodded slowly, like he was considering the information. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He reached behind him and pulled the Glock out of his trousers, set it on the table and then leaned back in his chair. He waited. 

Bill took the bait. “Wha’s that then?” 

“That’s the gun I’m going to use to shoot you if Mom ever has another ‘nasty fall’ or knocks into some cabinet doors, or hits the door wrong, or accidently slams her hand in the car door again.” 

He froze for a moment, looked at Eames. “You ain’t gonna shoot me, boy. You ain’t got the balls.” 

Arthur’s mouth moved, but Eames spoke. “Oh he’ll shoot you. He’s shot me on more than one occasion. Knows how to put a bullet right where he wants it.” Eames cocked his head to the right. “I like to watch. Arthur knows what I like, knows how to make the pain linger, make it so you can’t forget, no matter how hard you try.” 

Bill swallowed. “Oh?” His voice quivered, just slightly. “And what do you do?” 

Eames bared his teeth. “I take care of the bodies.” 

Arthur rose from his seat, the legs of the chair scraping loudly against the floor and startling Bill. He reached down, slowly and surely, and took the gun back, tucked into his trousers again. He looked at Bill, stared him down for a long, long moment, let the weight of it settle into Bill. “Hope for your sake I never see you again.” 

And with that said, the two of them left. Walked back through the front room, and down the steps where Arthur paused to touch one of the hanging baskets. “I can’t keep her from going back, but I’ll kill him if he hurts her again.” 

Eames shoved his hands in his pockets. “Seems fair.” 

They walked together to the car. Arthur climbed into the driver’s seat, but didn’t start the engine. 

“Mara invited us for dinner,” Eames said after a moment of silence. “Seemed like she had some dastardly plan to tease information out of me.” 

Arthur let out a breath, and then another. “You’re not going to tell her anything.” 

Eames gave Arthur a small smile. “Not anything you wouldn’t tell my parents.” 

Arthur started the engine, and they drove out of the woods.


	6. Chapter 6

He slept late on Saturday, as if his body was still trying to make up for lost time, and sometime around 11, Arthur stumbled down to the kitchen for coffee. Stewart had been in his office and followed him down, leaning against the door frame as Arthur fussed with the coffee pot angrily. 

“Since you didn’t like anything at the BX, maybe we should go into town and do some shopping.” The words were a question, but Arthur sensed in the tone that it wasn’t. “And then some of the guys are going out tonight. You used to like that.” 

Arthur stared at the coffee pot, willing it to brew faster. He didn’t want to think about what Stewart said. He didn’t want to think about god awful clothes or dinner and drinks with people he didn’t know and probably didn’t like. He didn’t want to think about going to the range and not shooting the Glock. He didn’t want-- 

The pot was full. And Arthur wanted coffee, and he wanted to run until his lungs ached, and he wanted a shower with pink lips, and he wanted to work. God, but he wanted to work. The longing for it was like a punch to the gut. He stood there for a long moment, looking at that coffee and missing work, without ever once wondering what work was. 

“Arthur? Did you hear me?” 

And really, that anger was irrational, Arthur knew that, knew that Stewart had good intentions, knew that having clothes that were his would make him feel better. But he was still, utterly, completely angry. 

“Yeah, shopping and dinner. I heard.” He poured the coffee into a cup. “Guess I better shower.” 

They drove to the mall with only the radio to break the silence. Arthur stared at the window and hated the sand and the cacti and the blistering heat. He hated the DJ’s voice and the overplayed eighties and nineties hits. He hated the jeans and graphic tee he had thrown on after the shower because to look at the clothes in the closet meant thinking about what he wanted and couldn’t have. 

He tried to think about how nice it would be to have things of his own and what kinds of clothes he might like to have, but there was a huge blank in his mind. And whenever he tried to imagine his clothing options, he just saw himself standing in that record shop, holding the Edith Piaf sleeve and Julia with raised eyebrows and a dimpled grin. And Arthur wondered if it was possible to see her without the help of Somnacin. 

It was Saturday, so Stewart circled the parking lot twice to find a parking spot that wasn’t at the very edge of the lot. And Arthur tried not to be irritated about that too. And then they walked into Macy’s. 

Which was hell. 

The BX had been bad, but bad in that way that it was easy to walk through the aisles and know that he didn’t want any of that. Macy’s was like a labyrinth of clothing racks, counters, and people. So many people. Arthur’s fingers twitched. 

Arthur did a quick lap of the entire men’s department, just to get his bearings. He didn’t even bother looking at the clothing until the second pass. He dismissed the athletic clothes as sweat pants were fine for running. And he made a second pass through some more casual shirts which were hideous before winding up in the business clothes. Stewart said nothing as Arthur picked his way through the clothing, picking up a vest, putting back the trousers, running his hands along the cashmere sweater, considering the dress shirts. After selecting a dozen different things, he made his way to the dressing room, where Stewart sat in a chair outside and waited. 

In the fitting room, Arthur made three piles: need to try, unacceptable, and acceptable. Most of the trousers ended up in unacceptable, primarily because they didn’t allow for a wide enough range of movement; most of the shirts were unacceptable because they were too big around the waist (but a small size wouldn’t accommodate his shoulders). 

He had one pair of dark grey trousers and a white dress shirt in the acceptable pile, and all that was left was to try on the vest. For a long moment, Arthur looked at it, draped on the hanger, he inspected the herringbone pattern, scrutinized the seams, and studied the buttons. He stood still and did all of that until he realized that he was afraid to try it on, wanted it just like he wanted the Glock. But a vest was nothing like a gun. 

Arthur pulled on the trousers and slipped into the shirt. He allowed himself a moment to feel the smooth buttons, the slickness of them, the way they slid underneath the tips of his fingers and through the buttonhole. He eased the vest from the hanger and closed his eyes while he pulled it over his arms. Arthur didn’t look at all until he had the vest buttoned and he could see the complete look in the mirror. 

When he opened his eyes, for the first time in five days he felt right. The trousers did not fit perfectly over the swell of his ass, the shirt was a little looser than he liked, but it was held in by the vest. And when Arthur looked at his reflection he saw a man in control. A man who knew what he wanted and how to get it. He finally felt like he fit in his skin. 

_Well, we all have our vices, darling. And yours is bespoke._

Yes, Arthur thought, with just a little tailoring, these things would be perfect. It just needed a tie. And better shoes. 

Arthur stepped out of the fitting room to find one, and Stewart jerked in his chair. His gaze raked up Arthur and then back down. “Shit, Arthur,” he whispered, almost in awe. 

“No wonder you didn’t like those clothes.” He reached back, into his pocket for his wallet. 

And reality crashed in on Arthur. These clothes made him look like an adult, made him feel like he was in control, but he couldn’t afford them, no wallet, no cash, no id. And that was it, wasn’t it. It wasn’t wearing wrangler jeans and Hanes shirts that bothered him; he was completely and utterly dependent on Stewart for everything. “It’s nice,” Arthur admitted. “But too dressy for everyday.” 

“Arthur, if this is what you want, I can afford--” 

“No.” Arthur cut him off. “The things at your house are fine.” He stepped back into the fitting room and looked at himself in the mirror. He was clean lines and sophistication, dependable and not to be trifled with. Arthur looked in the mirror and vowed to himself he would be that man again, the one who didn’t rely on anyone else, the man who took care of other people in a crisis. 

He smoothed his hands down the vest and over the back pockets. He would be the kind of man who wore custom clothes with a shoulder holster and a Glock. 

They went back to the house, and Stewart spent an hour scrolling through his phone while Arthur pretended to watch the Great British Baking Show while really just listening to the accents and not thinking. He liked the pronunciations and the cadence, it was easy to listen to and pleasant to the ear. Comforting. 

Arthur ate popcorn, and made himself toast and eggs, and drank more coffee while watching TV until he dropped into a fitful doze, as if after all the stress and revelations, his body was only concerned about nutritional intake and sleep. 

Stewart shook him awake when it was time to leave for dinner, and Arthur was starving. 

They went to a taco bar, because it was New Mexico and apparently that’s what the team did. Arthur ate chili rellenos with hatch chilis, and quesadillas with poblano and chicken, and tacos--so many tacos. He ate until he was certain he would never be hungry again. While everyone else was sipping on margaritas (with real limeade and cheap tequila), Arthur worked his way through nachos and sopapillas with honey. 

And as everyone moved from the need to relax to slightly tipsy, Arthur realized he was the only one who hadn’t had a drop of alcohol. And apparently, he was the only one who didn’t want one. He ordered a beer, just for the appearance of it, and when he sipped at it Stewart’s shoulders dropped almost imperceptibly. 

Somehow, over the course of the evening, Arthur ended up next to Matthews who was nursing his margarita at a pace Arthur admired. “Where do you put all of that?” Matthews asked, nodding at the empty plate of nachos. 

Arthur looked down. “Oh, I don’t really know? I can’t even say if I normally eat this way.” 

Matthews shrugged. “I can’t imagine how strange it must be for you.” 

Arthur lifted one shoulder dismissively; everyone had been saying that to him all evening. What was weird was that Arthur wasn’t irritated about it. 

“So, you and Stewart were together, like five years ago, right?” He took a healthy swallow of his drink, but Arthur was pretty sure it was more melted ice then tequila. 

“We’re not together now.” Matthews let out a breath and looked at Stewart out of the corner of his eye, and then Arthur understood. “You and Stewart then?” 

Matthews shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe?” 

Arthur chuckled a little, “yeah, that sounds like Stewart. Sometimes he’d ignore me for weeks, but then come stumbling into my room completely trashed. He could be a bit like whiplash that way.” He took a sip of his beer. 

“Is that why you two--” He drifted off, but Arthur understood. 

“I don’t know.” Arthur shrugged. “Not part of the memory I have.” 

That was the point that Stewart walked up, cheeks red with alcohol and laughter. “You guys are waaay behind.” He had four shots of something clear and set them on the table, two for Arthur, two for Matthews. 

Arthur glared at the glasses, his good humor evaporating. “Stewart.” 

“Come now Arthur, we are all celebrating having survived the week, you have to join in. You’ve had the worst week of us all.” 

“I’m happy with my beer, thanks.” Arthur insisted. 

“Arthur,” Stewart draped himself across Arthur’s shoulders that way he used to do when he was drunk and they had still been a they. “Arthur, Arthur, always the stick in the mud. Just relax a little.” 

Arthur looked over at Matthews, to see how he was taking this display of affection, and there was a tightening around his mouth. He reached out and tossed back the two shots in quick succession. And Arthur remembered what that felt like too. 

He stood up, knocking Stewart off of him, looked him in the eye and tried not to be angry as he said, “You know I don’t drink liquor. A lot of things may have changed in the last five years, but not that. Excuse me.” Arthur went to the mens. 

When he came out, Stewart and Matthews were having a heated but quiet exchange halfway across the room by the bar. Arthur could see from their profiles that it was meant to be secret, but with the acoustics in the room, Arthur was perfectly placed to overhear. 

“You have no idea. You’re just throwing things at the wall to see what sticks,” Matthews accused. 

“I have it under control.” 

Arthur stepped away because if he could hear them, then they could hear him when he whispered to himself, “I’d hate to see you out of control.” There was something familiar in the way Matthews was accusing Stewart, in the square of his shoulders and the clear tone of voice. And there was something just as familiar in Stewart’s red cheeked defense. It was an odd mix of anger and nostalgia and fear that felt important. And Arthur was caught in the swirl of it all, waiting for it to settle, to still and clear, but it just like all the other times, it didn’t. 

They stayed at the bar for another hour, before the group broke up, trickling back to their homes. That night was the last time Arthur slept through the night. 

* 

Eames woke up to the sound of his phone ringing and blearily smacked the nightstand in search of it. Clumsily, he knocked it on the floor and nearly fell off the bed to snatch it before voicemail picked up. “Hello?” 

There was a heartbeat of silence, and then, “Eames.” 

“Darling? Wha’s going on? It’s the middle of the bloody night?” Eames rubbed sleep from his face. 

“I’ve just been thinking.” His voice sounded clear. “It’s not safe.” 

That had Eames jerking upright in bed. “What’s not safe?” 

“I thought--” Arthur cut himself off suddenly. “But I was wrong. We can’t--” 

And Eames suddenly understood with a painful clarity. “It takes you ten months to decide it’s not safe for me to know? That’s some right shit, you know, Arthur.” 

For a long moment Arthur was silent on the other end of the line. “It isn’t safe though. None of it is.” 

“You really are an arse, you know that. You’ve known--” but neither one of them would ever come out and actually say anything about Mara or Violet or any of them over the phone. Because it was a risk. “All this time, but as soon as I know something about you, it’s a risk. You think I don’t run bloody risks because of you all the bloody time?” 

Arthur’s voice, when he spoke next, was shaky. “It’s a risk I can’t take Eames. It’s a bigger risk than I thought, and I can’t take it. I won’t. And I’m sorry. I know--” 

“Fuck you.” Eames cut him off. “Just fuck right off.” And he hung up the phone. Eames threw it across the room, and then sank his face into his hands, a clawing at his stomach, his heart beating hard and fast. He groped blindly for the phone, reaching for something to make the pain less, and then remembered he’d thrown it across the floor. After a moment, he stumbled to get it, crouched down next to the chest of drawers and scrolled for the number. It was still the middle of the night, and Eames was supposed to get on a plane in the morning for a job. An exciting job, they were attempting Inception, but right now, in this pain-wracked moment, Eames couldn’t think about that, could only think about making the pain less. 

Eames heard someone pick up the line on the other end and spoke before they did. “Mum?” 

“Oh, my love, what happened?” 

Eames let out a shaky breath, “I just needed to hear your voice.” 

“Well,” Violet started on a rambling story on his father’s latest attempts to join some sort of local symphony, then talked about entering one of her roses in a local gardening contest. She told him about the lovely breakfast they had at a new local café, and she complained about her favorite tea being on backorder from the store. And eventually, Eames thought he might be able to breath again. He uncurled himself from the floor, and climbed back into the bed. “Do you want to talk about it, my sweet?” 

Eames was quiet for a moment, because he didn’t talk to his mother about work, not after he’d gone through so much to keep that part of his life separate. “Oh, it’s just Arthur,” he sighed. “We’ve had a bit of a tiff, and I think it might be all over now.” 

“And here I thought him the kind of man to know a good thing when he saw it,” Violet said softly. “There’ll be someone out there for you, love. You just have to keep looking.” 

“Thanks, Mum.” 

“You should sleep, you’ve an early flight, remember.” Because Eames was going to be gone for two months, he’d told her he was auditing some painting classes in Berlin. He’d had to tell her something. 

“You too, Mum.” 

Arthur didn’t send any more gifts.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG guys, chapter 7 already! Next week I will finish posting this story. Chapter 8 will go up on Monday, and 9 + epilogue will be posted on Friday! Enjoy!

Arthur rolled over and looked at the clock on the nightstand: only 3:45am, which made this the third time in the last forty-five minutes he’d looked at the damn clock. He rubbed his eyes and thought about trying to read. He rolled over onto his back and looked at the ceiling. If he could just get comfortable, then he could fall asleep. 

Arthur closed his eyes and imagined cool green and damp brown, soothing earth colors. He imagined laying in the grass and watching fluffy white clouds pass by. He imagined Julia running her fingers down his arms and whispering sweet nothings in a deep voice. And then he saw rows and rows of big bay windows all covered up with curtains with doors hidden between smooth columns with floral capitals, all tucked behind a white concrete fence. Arthur imagined himself standing outside, looking over the windows and doors, trying to catch a glimpse of Julia inside. 

And then Arthur opened his eyes. 3:48am. This was moving from annoying to outrageous. He threw back the blanket and, without ever having thought about it, found sweatpants and a shirt for running. He was out the front door in less than three minutes. 

It was hard for Arthur to decide which activity he preferred, the running or the showering. Usually in the shower Arthur could stand there and wait for however long it took, there was enough time there for the thoughts to bubble up from wherever they laid dormant inside him. But the running, the running gave him a feeling of freedom, an exhaustion that only came from having actually done something, and he certainly wasn’t doing much with the rest of his day. When Arthur ran, it felt okay to not think, after all, he was concentrating so much on his breath and his feet, on the wind and sweat on his face. He felt the most himself when running. 

He passed by houses and rocks and cacti and didn’t think about those things. Didn’t wonder about the people who lived inside, didn’t admire the only bit of green, didn’t think about sitting down on a wide surface to rest. He just ran, one foot in front of the other, in perpetual motion, going ever forward. 

Arthur ran for an hour without ever feeling tired. Oh his muscles were sore, and he ached to sit down, but not like he would sleep. He returned to the house, showered quickly because he wanted to be in the house while Stewart was still asleep, and then put on clean jeans and a Henley without looking in the mirror. He went to Stewart’s office, to the computer that was so easily broken into, to the pictures he had stored there. 

Stewart got up at 6:30, to the blare of an alarm clock and yawned his way to the kitchen to brew coffee. Arthur decided he would have a cup in a few minutes, he had almost finished looking through all the images. 

“You’re up early,” Stewart said and scratched his pudgy stomach. 

Arthur merely shrugged from the kitchen doorway. 

“We’ll leave in an hour for your appointment. Want to go to the range this morning?” 

Arthur shrugged again, his mind now caught on the memory of the Glock. 

Stewart poured himself a cup. “I guess you're as chatty in the morning as you are any other time of day.” He sarcastically saluted Arthur with the cup. 

But Arthur didn’t notice, his hand was twitching and aching for the feel of the gun. 

His hand didn’t stop twitching until after Marissa closed the door to her office. “How did the homework go?” she asked. 

Arthur moved away from the flower picture. “I don’t want to talk about that.” 

“Really? You talked about it almost exclusively last week. What changed?” 

He sat down on the couch ( _sofa_ ) and looked at his hands. “We went to Macy’s. I found things I liked. We didn’t buy them.” 

“Why not?” 

Arthur didn’t speak for a long moment. “If Stewart buys them, they’re still not mine. I have clothes, somewhere, things that I like, that I purchased with money I earned. That is what I want. I don’t want some sort of placeholder.” 

Marissa nodded. “You want your life back.” 

“Yes.” Arthur looked up at her. “Stewart can’t make that happen.” And that was the truth, whatever else Stewart might do, however much he might want Arthur to remember, and Arthur was sure that Stewart wanted Arthur to remember, he had no power to make those things happen. Only Arthur could do that. 

“How is the living arrangement going?” Marissa asked instead. 

Arthur crossed his legs and relaxed into the chair. “It’s fine.” They talked about sleeping arrangements and the food in the house. Marissa asked how Arthur liked the house, and Arthur gave some sort of standard answer that meant nothing. They talked about the weather and going out to the bar. They talked about coffee and tacos and what Arthur enjoyed about those things. 

They didn’t talk about what Arthur had overheard at the bar or the fact that Arthur still felt the need to search through Stewart’s belongings. They didn’t talk about Arthur’s running or the fact that he wasn’t sleeping. Arthur didn’t talk about Julia or the fact that sometimes he had thoughts that didn’t seem to come from anywhere but were startling in their accuracy. Arthur didn’t talk about how things felt wrong, about how he wanted the Glock more than he could say, how he felt uncomfortable all the time and itched to be out of sight. 

At the end of the hour, Marissa said, “You know Arthur, you’ve been through a trauma, even if you can’t remember it. It’s okay for you to feel like a victim, to have needs that are different then what they were, to express those needs to the people around you.” 

Arthur looked at her like the thought had never occurred to him because it hadn’t. He thought about the word victim, rolled it around in his mouth, thought about the phrase ‘I am a victim.’ And, in an abstract sort of way, Arthur realized he was a victim. Something had happened to him, something he couldn’t control. 

_You’ve happened to other people, just like someone happened to you._

Arthur thought about that in the hospital cafeteria, drinking marginal coffee (because the cafeteria was better then the room service, but not by much). He thought about it while Stewart talked about going up to the dream lab for another trial rather than to the gun range. He thought about it while they walked to the elevator and down the hallway, and he thought about it while Stewart was talking to his team members. 

He stopped thinking about it when he saw the PASIV. Julia might be in there, answers might be in there. 

“This batch of Somnacin has a mild sedative in it, nothing dangerous, just enough to keep Arthur conscious a little longer if he gets shot again. Hopefully it will give us enough time to get into the vault,” Stewart explained. 

And Arthur felt a sudden, inexplicable rage toward the PASIV. But then, the nurse was inserting the IV, and he was falling asleep. 

This time Arthur stood several blocks from the record shop, at the intersection of two streets with illegible names. He was dressed in a three piece suit, bespoke, and there was a familiar weight in a shoulder holster. Arthur breathed out a sigh he hadn’t known he’d been holding, let go of a weight he’d been holding since he woke up in the barracks. Across the street he could see a college student in a bright scarf seated at an outside café. She had a large sketchbook and was drawing some sort of spiral staircase. 

A car honked at Arthur, and he quickly stepped from the road onto the sidewalk. A limo pulled up a few feet down the road, and a Japanese business man stepped out, inclined his head at Arthur before stepping into the large glass building. It looked odd next to the dilapidated stone house. 

Arthur was so busy looking at the two buildings that he didn’t notice the Arabic man stepping out of a pharmacy until he nearly ran Arthur over. They both nodded apologies, and Arthur resumed his journey down the sidewalk. Robert Fischer’s face stared down at Arthur from a newspaper stand only twenty feet from his destination. For a moment, Arthur stared at the image; it was the Economist, the article he’d read so carefully at Stewarts. And then Arthur turned away, intent on the record shop. 

Julia was there, standing in front of the bins. She smiled at the sound of the bell on the door, and then smiled brighter at the sight of Arthur. “Well, you look much more like yourself now.” Her gaze raked down and then slowly back up. “I do like a man who can wear a suit.” 

She smiled at him, and Arthur wasn’t sure what to say. Last time she shot him. 

“Are you looking for something?” she asked. 

Arthur looked around the record shop. He’d come here specifically, he wanted to see her. “You, actually.” 

“Oh darling, you say the sweetest things.” She beamed at him. Julia stepped in close, slipped her hand under Arthur’s jacket, ran her fingers across his vest. “I just love a man in a waistcoat.” And then she leaned in close and whispered in his ear, “I want to hear you say my name.” 

Arthur felt his breath catch in his throat, his skin was tingling everywhere. In this moment, in this place, with her pressed intimately against him, he felt vibrantly alive. Thoughts raced through his mind. Those weren’t just random projections he had seen on the street, they held purpose and meaning. He was meant to be here in this shop with this woman. She was important, she meant something to him. 

“Julia,” he breathed. 

And she drew back, a small Mona Lisa smile on her face. Julia turned away, took a single step from Arthur, and Arthur instinctively followed. She picked up a record from where it lay on top of the bin. “I think you’ll find what you need here.” 

Arthur looked down at the record, opened it to the liner notes, and saw: Montgomery March, 105 Streatham Hill, London, SW2 4UG. “Who?” He asked, looking up at Julia who had pulled the Glock from his shoulder holster sometime during their embrace. 

“Sweet Dreams, darling.” She fired two rounds into his chest. 

As he lay on the floor, very slowly bleeding out, Arthur watched Julia file the record away in the second bin, the one reserved for the B’s, noted absently that it was the Bebop record, that, apparently, the records were organized by record name not musical group or genre. Noted that it was not the Edith Piaf that had been so annoyingly misfiled last time, and Arthur clutched the word, Montgomery, close, holding it in his mind tightly, like a child with a security blanket. And even through the pain that was really starting to dissipate now, even though his vision was going black around the edges and Arthur could only see Julia's shapely calves as she moved down the aisle, Arthur was comforted. 

Montgomery. 

Stewart was a cursing, violent mess when everyone woke up. Matthews looked pale, and Arthur dared to ask, “What happened?” 

Matthews looked up with haunted eyes. “One of your projections tore his heart out and laughed while she did it.” 

* 

Eames worked another two jobs, in the year since that fateful conversation with Arthur; it was a busy year and not just because of the failed Inception job. Violet told him it wasn’t healthy to bury his pain over Arthur with all that activity, but Eames did it anyway because it worked. She thought he was busy with art classes and new acquaintances, but Eames filled himself with work. 

They were complex jobs, well, the Inception attempt anyway. On the second job, Eames threw himself into the Forge, tailed the mark, planned his impersonation to the merest hint of a wrinkle. Memorized every minute of every day for three weeks of his schedule, knew what brand of pants the man wore. Really, all that research, Arthur would have been proud. 

He’d gotten to know his co-workers on those two jobs more than usual, heard more than a few stories about the terrifying pair Cobb and Arthur. Heard how Arthur drove like a stunt driver in and out of the Dream Space, that Cobb could design a Dream with two levels, that Arthur worked like a robot and stopped only for the rare coffee break. He heard they took jobs other people turned down, ones in Ukraine and Singapore and Argentina, took them because of the challenge rather than in spite of it. Heard that Arthur once shot a man just to watch him bleed, that Cobb had laughed the whole time. 

A chemist told Eames that Cobb was the one who invented the PASIV technology and Arthur was his bodyguard, that they were so rich they didn’t need to work but did for the thrill of it. Heard that Arthur was a wanted criminal, a psychopath who shot his whole family. He heard that Cobb murdered his wife, that it was a government conspiracy and that she was being held in DC. For such a small group or co workers, they each had a different tale to tell, and it was nearly impossible to find the truth in the fiction. 

It’s possible that Eames only muddied the water further with a few stories of his own. 

At the end of it, he went to Mombasa to hide. Because two jobs like that in one year was exhausting and he didn’t want to be anywhere someone could find him, except for his parents. He didn’t want to hear any more impossible stories about someone who was more impossible than the lies. 

He was gambling, when Cobb found him. “Rub them together all you want, they’re not going to breed,” Dom said. 

And all Eames could think was fuck. “You never know.” He cast a quick look around the room for Arthur, but there was no Arthur. Instead there was a man by the bar, casting furtive looks at Cobb. 

“Let me get you a drink,” Dom suggested and it was more than just an offer of alcohol 

Double fuck, but Eames was bored with gambling and curious and still angry. “You’re buying.” Eames cashed in his stolen chips. 

They moved to a table and Cobb ordered the beers before starting in on his pitch, “Inception. Now before you bother telling me it’s impossible--” 

And that was just the beginning of a whole new mess. Because Eames knew immediately what Cobb was asking, knew from his own attempt what Cobb needed, understood it was going to take the best. And Eames had just spent a lot of time and effort and money trying to get away from Arthur. “No, it’s perfectly possible it’s just bloody difficult.” 

Because damn it, Eames believed in the risky, liked the gamble--the challenge. And he was angry and curious and wanted to prove Arthur wrong. 

“Interesting. Because Arthur keeps telling me it can’t be done”. 

And Eames laughed, “Arthur, you're still working with that stick in the mud.” And that was when Eames knew it didn’t matter what else Cobb said, he was going to take the job. He was going to take the job and prove to Arthur just how not a risk Eames was. 

Eames, Yousef, Saito, and Cobb drove to the warehouse outside of Paris together. The outside of the building was dilapidated, with graffiti and several broken window panes. But those broken windows have been boarded up from the inside with plywood, and the front door had a new lock--well, new to the building anyway. Eames saw the splintered wood on the doorframe from where the original lock had been broken. 

Inside, a young woman (early twenties Eames thought) was sitting at a desk scribbling on a pad of paper. There was an empty seat next to her--Arthur’s seat. It was a mini flood of emotions, but mostly Eames recognized nervousness. He pinched his eyes closed for a moment, there was nothing to be nervous about with Arthur. Arthur would be the same competent stick-in-the-mud that he had always been, because Arthur couldn’t change. To change, one had to imagine a life that was different, and Arthur was lacking in imagination. 

“Cobb?” The woman asked. 

“Ah, Ariadne.” Cobb smiled widely at her, like he’d just won some sort of bet. “Let me introduce Eames.” 

“I’m charmed, pet.” Eames gave her an equally wide grin. 

“Don’t take his flirting seriously, Ariadne,” Arthur said from a doorway Eames hadn’t noticed yet. 

He looked--tired, Eames realized suddenly. He was prepared for Arthur to look good, to wear his suits and take on the world and to be the bad ass mother fucker everyone seemed to think he was. Eames had been prepared to see him wilted, as if the mere act of looking at Eames was destroying his soul bit by bit and he would have to suffer on. He had prepared himself to see Arthur angry and combative, but standing in the doorway holding a cup of coffee with his sleeves rolled up, waistcoat on but no jacket, dark circles under his eyes--Eames hadn’t been prepared to see Arthur looking so human. 

“Cobb, Saito.” Arthur nodded at the two of them. “Who are you?” 

Maybe Yousef started to introduce himself, maybe Cobb did, but Eames cut them both off. “Yousef, best chemist I’ve ever seen. You should see the things he can mix up in a phial.” Eames leered at Arthur who only huffed a sigh at him. 

“I have work to do.” He shook his head and walked over to the chair next to Ariadne. Eames took the opportunity to appreciate the length of his stride and the breadth of his shoulders, both a contrast to his tapered waist. Yes, physically Arthur still looked good, still excluded that air of complete competence. He hadn’t even spared a second look for Eames before dragging his chair over to another desk and sitting down to read what was undoubtedly an endless number of newspaper articles on their mark. 

It irked to see Arthur so different and yet exactly the same. 

The first time it happened, Eames didn’t notice. Oh, he noticed that Arthur got up from his desk and walked over to the room Yousef had commandeered for testing his compounds and where Cobb was currently under. He noticed that Arthur went over to Ariadne’s desk and pulled her into a conversation about the number of windows in the hotel. He noticed those things because he noticed every time Arthur got up. And he certainly noticed when his mobile rang at 4pm exactly because that was the standing date he had with his mother for their now biweekly conversations. He stepped outside while quietly digging the mobile out of his pocket. “Hello Mum.” 

It was the second time that Eames realized what was happening, because it was Tuesday. And since Eames had been out of the country for the better part of a year, he and his mother were now speaking twice a week on the phone: Tuesdays and Fridays at 4pm. 

At 4pm, his mobile rang, and Arthur’s head shot up, a look of absolute terror on his face as his gaze met Eames. Eames shrugged, and Arthur immediately stood up. Ariadne had class this evening, but Cobb was reading over some documents. Eames watched as Arthur made a beeline over and began a conversation about flights. 

Eames watched Arthur for so long that his phone went to voicemail, and he had to shake off the surprise, surprise that Arthur knew about this long standing tradition, surprise that Arthur remembered, surprise that Arthur cared enough to distract their coworkers so that Eames could take these calls unnoticed. 

And he did it so casually. 

Eames swallowed and nodded at Arthur who had angled Cobb so that he couldn’t see Eames walk outside. He was overwhelmingly grateful when he called his mum from the pavement outside. 

That was the last time Eames saw Arthur before he took the job as Browning’s assistant and when he returned, the group was deep in the midst of planning. There wasn’t time for Eames to speak privately with Arthur, there wasn’t energy left over to wonder what was wrong with Arthur. 

Of course, that all became frighteningly apparent on the first level of the Dream when Saito got shot, but there certainly wasn’t time to worry about Mal fucking everything up for everyone. There was only going forward and going down and hoping that gumption and shoestrings would hold this train wreck (pun intended, if Eames did say so himself) together.


	8. chapter 8

Stewart seethed over Arthur’s projections for days. He spent hours on Monday at the gun range, and Arthur had stupidly gone with him. For about twenty minutes, Arthur watched as Stewart emptied round after round into the target. And then, when he was sweaty and his arm losing steadiness, he went back up to the counter for a rifle to shoot outside. Arthur didn’t follow him outside. 

He took a seat at one end of the counter, near the handguns, specifically the Heckler and Koch. “You know, you could shoot too.” The officer behind the counter offered. 

Arthur looked over the hand guns, and his longing finally won out. “Give me the Glock 17.” 

“Sure that’s what you want? Most people like something a little more exciting.” 

Arthur looked at the other choices, looked them over carefully. Sure, some were more accurate, some boasted more power. There were heavier and lighter, bigger calibers--but Arthur wanted the Glock. “No. I want that one.” The jack of all trades, the reliable weapon, because Arthur was a jack of all trades, a reliable weapon. And when his fingers traced the butt of the pistol, he knew without question that Stewart was making a mistake, was discounting Arthur, outside with his high caliber rifle, putting round after angry round into a target, discounting the steady hand that never hesitated, that never jammed, that never failed. 

Arthur slipped on his ear plugs, closed his eyes, inhaled the gun smoke, felt the gun in his hand, and went to that quiet place he usually only found in the shower. He opened his eyes and stepped up to his place. With one hand, Arthur raised the gun, felt the power of it, imagined what he could do with it: end a life, protect a loved one. He took a breath and looked down to the target ( _projection, darling_ ), squeezed the trigger with the pad of his finger. 

With a gun, Arthur could complete the mission. 

He emptied the clip with sure, smooth motions and didn’t need to see the target to know that he had put each bullet where he wanted it. And then he lowered the gun. There were no answers to be found in this place, he thought, looking down the range at the target. Arthur would have to leave to find what he needed. If only he could. He took the Glock back to the counter with a surprising lack of regret. After all, this would not be the only time he held one. 

When the airman asked if he wanted to try something else, Arthur shook his head and tucked himself back into the corner. He propped himself up and took a nap while he waited. 

Of course all that sleep meant that at exciting 3:23am, Arthur was staring at the ceiling again. He was flitting from thought to thought, wanting the calm of the Glock, the drumming of the shower, the endless pounding of feet on pavement. Montgomery, and Julia, and the Glock, and Stewart. They chased each other through his brain, an endless circle that Arthur couldn’t break. 

So he got up and ran. 

It was different this time. Instead of drumming the thoughts out, leaving behind emptiness and fatigue, Arthur felt his thoughts settle. He was running, he’d been running since he’d woken up in the barracks. Running towards something or running away? Neither, running to finish the mission. 

What was the mission? 

Arthur let that thought drift away and watched the thoughts swirl through his mind for a moment. He had places to go, people to protect, that was the mission. But thinking about the mission wouldn’t protect them, wouldn’t get him where he needed to be. Thinking about the mission would put them in danger. But running, that steady beat, that series of deep breaths in the cool air, that exacting rhythm, running would get him what he needed. 

What did he need? 

He let that thought go too. It wasn’t time yet, he still had goals to achieve before he could get what he needed. And what he needed didn’t matter until he met those other objectives. Running, running would help. It made his body strong, strong enough for what lay ahead. It gave him time, time to himself, time to think, time to understand. 

But there wasn’t much time left. 

He turned onto a new road, unconsciously headed towards the hospital. He passed the gate, passed more buildings. A screeching of a siren jerked Arthur from his thoughts, while bright lights blinded him from either end of the road. He slowed and then stopped as the cars slowed and it became obvious they wanted him. 

“Stop!” blared from one of the cars, but Arthur had already stopped. He waited for the guard to get out of the car. “Are you Arthur?” 

“Yes,” Arthur said. “Have I done something wrong?” 

The guard let out a sigh of relief. “Your roommate said you were gone. He was worried that something had happened.” 

Stewart had called them, Stewart hadn’t trusted Arthur to come back. He hadn’t trusted Arthur at all. All this time, Arthur’s own anger had been set on a low simmer that occasionally erupted into a roiling boil that spilled over the sides of the pot. Standing in front of the guard, Arthur steamed. The idea of returning to that split level, of sitting down in that kitchen, of explaining his actions… Why should he have to explain anything to someone who claimed to need his help but didn’t trust him. It was like a bucket of cold water, because Arthur didn’t trust Stewart either. Not even a little bit. “I supposed I should head back.” 

Arthur turned to do just that, but the guard stopped him. “I’ll give you a lift; it’s a long run back.” 

Inside Arthur raged, his fingers twitched, his shoulders tensed, but he got into the car. 

Stewart wasn’t any happier when Arthur returned to the house. “Where the hell have you been?!” He stormed out of the kitchen, coffee sloshing over the side of his cup in haste and anger. 

Arthur squared his shoulders. “I had trouble sleeping so I went for a run. You didn’t need to call in a missing persons like I’m a child,” Arthur seethed quietly. He was a grown man, for god’s sake. And he wasn’t anything to Stewart, so why Stewart would get his panties in a twist over a little thing like a middle of the night run--- 

_That is an excellent question, darling._

And the pieces finally slotted together in Arthur’s head like that shitty sliding puzzle. Arthur had slid the questions down and up, left and right, put it in the correct spot only to find he needed to move something else and watched the picture come apart again. But now Arthur had found all the right spots and slid the tiles into place until they snapped together and revealed the image. 

He was stealing secrets. Arthur’s secrets. 

“You had trouble sleeping, so you went for a run?!” Stewart shouted back. “Make some fucking herbal tea, watch netflix, jerk off! But, no, you decide going for a run is the appropriate way to cure a little insomnia. Do you have the slightest clue just what kind of danger--” 

“Danger? On a secure military base? What? You thought someone was going to break onto the base and kidnap me in an effort to find out what happened during a routine experiment?” Because now they both knew it wasn’t an experiment. 

And Arthur could see it on Stewart’s face, that someone just might go through all that trouble to get a hold of Arthur for that information. That whatever was locked in Arthur’s head was big. Maybe Stewart had gone through all that trouble, there was no way for Arthur to know what was true. There was no way to know if anything Stewart had told him was true. 

“You have no idea Arthur, the experiment you were working on…” Stewart kept talking, but Arthur couldn’t hear any more, couldn’t listen to any of the words--the lies--coming out of his mouth. He felt a sudden, sharp, longing for Julia, for her razor smile, and her grey eyes, for the way she was able to pick his pocket and her comforting demeanor. He missed her like a limb, like a phantom ghost who trailed along beside him never present and known only by her absence. Whoever she was, wherever she was, Arthur needed to find her. She was the only one he could trust. 

Stewart was still talking, “I know you don’t remember, but there is serious risk, Arthur. You can’t just be out running any time you like.” 

“Christ Stewart, you can’t just keep me here like a child. I am a grown man,” Arthur insisted, suddenly tired of this fight. 

“It’s not forever, just until you regain your memories. I know you’re not a child, but until then, you kind of are. You can’t understand--” 

“Oh, I understand well enough, thank you.” Arthur shoved passed him. “I’ll be in the shower, DAD!” Arthur screamed. If they were going to treat him like a child, he might as well act like one too. 

There was a therapy appointment that morning, and Arthur decided he was too tired for these sorts of games. There were HIPPA confidentiality laws, and that patient doctor relationship that was supposed to be built on trust. But Arthur had never signed those papers, never consented to treatment, and Marissa had never talked about confidentiality. Sitting in the waiting room, Arthur wondered just how much information she shared with Stewart. What happened in those debriefing meetings after the Dreaming attempts? What kinds of plans did the team make to break into Arthur’s mind? 

What could Arthur use to his advantage? 

Marissa called his name from the doorway, and Arthur hesitated. Stewart poked him in the arm and glared until Arthur stood up. He stuffed his hands in his pockets and shuffled down the hallway after Marissa. Had she spoken to Stewart this morning? Could she feel the tension and irritation between them? 

Could Arthur use that to his advantage? 

“How are you this morning, Arthur?” She said from behind her desk. 

Arthur hesitated, and then sat on the couch ( _sofa_ ). “Not great.” 

She waited for him to elaborate, and Arthur did. 

“I’m not sleeping at night. So, I’ve been getting up and going for a run. I guess Stewart must have woken up while I was gone last night, and thought someone had--I don’t know, kidnapped me or something. Anyway, he put out an APB on me, and I got dragged home like a truant child.” No reason to keep the anger out of his voice. Anyone would be angry about that. 

She nodded. “How long has the insomnia been going on?” 

“Since Sunday.” 

“And how do you feel when you try to sleep? Tell me about your symptoms.” 

Like my thoughts won’t settle, like I need to think but can’t. Like I do during the day when I’m away. “Like my thoughts won’t settle, like I need to think, but can’t. Running helps with that.” 

She nodded again. “How many times have you gone out to run?” 

“Every night.” 

She opened her mouth to speak, but Arthur talked over her. “Stewart seems to think I’m in some kind of danger. He was really angry last night. But why would anyone be after me? I’m just doing research on Dream technology. What could I possibly know that someone else would want?” 

Marissa gave him a soft smile. “That’s the problem with amnesia, isn’t it? No one knows what you know.” 

Arthur ducked his head and thought of Julia. “Maybe I should just get some zzzQuil or something. Maybe that would keep me in bed.” 

“I can give you a prescription for some sleeping pills, that might help.” 

“Thanks.” Arthur looked up. “I just wish I knew what happened. When we go into the Dream Space, I feel like I can find the answers, but I also feel like I’m under attack. And I guess that’s normal, but maybe there are too many people in the Dream. Maybe if it was just Stewart and me, my mind wouldn’t feel so violated.” He stood up and paced through the room, mind steadily working the problem while his mouth spit of trite nothings that probably did little to disguise his thinking. “It’s just so frustrating, and I hate it, and I’m taking it out on Stewart. I know that, and I know it isn’t fair to him. And I feel helpless, and I wish there was something I could do.” 

Marissa nodded. “You’ve lost something very important, and that can make you angry and resentful and feel helpless. But you aren’t. There are people, me and Stewart and your family, and we all want you to feel better. And if you can regain your memories, that’s optimal, but life can still be good without them. You just have to trust in this process, and don’t be ashamed of how you feel. You can talk about those feelings with Stewart. It will help.” 

Arthur sat back down and rubbed his face with both hands. “Yeah, maybe. I guess I could try.” But he wasn’t thinking about what she said, he was thinking about Julia and how to find her, maybe going into the Dream Space would help. Maybe Montgomery knew where to find her. 

That night, Arthur and Stewart stood in the kitchen, not really talking while waiting for a pot of tea to brew. Arthur fussed about in the cabinets getting out sugar and cream and trying not to express his irritation at the fact that Stewart insisted on ‘Sleepy Time’ tea, as if he were some sort of juvenile who needed to be coerced with cute words. 

When the tea had finished steeping, Arthur watched as Stewart added two scoops of sugar and a healthy splash of milk to his tea. Arthur blew softly across the brim of his which he’d left black. And then there was the moment where they both looked at the tiny pill bottle on the counter. Arthur pushed his anger down, imagined it fitting inside of that tiny bottle and screwing the lid back on tight. It wouldn’t do any good to let it out. 

Stewart was the one to reach down, open the bottle, and dump out a single tablet. He handed it to Arthur who took a deep breath and held the offensive chalky, white pill in his hand. Arthur popped it into his mouth, felt the size of it, the texture, the bitter taste, washed it down with the tea. 

“I guess this is good night, then.” Arthur waved his mug a bit in the air. “I’ll see you in the morning.” He walked back up to his room, wondering how long it would take for the drug to work. 

Slowly, Arthur shucked off his clothes, allowed the anger back out, allowed it to seep into his mind, felt the strength of it. He considered putting on something to sleep in, but the idea of wearing those clothes didn’t sit right. Instead, Arthur sat on the edge of the bed, breathed deeply, and waited. 

Around ten minutes, Arthur started to feel drowsy so he laid down on the bed--on top of the blanket because he didn’t actually want to go to sleep. He drifted off with the beginnings of a plan. That was the last night he swallowed the sleeping pill. 

* 

After ten hours on a plane, most people were probably very excited to land, although Eames had spent more time in airplanes and airports than most and had never been so damned pleased to see the ground. He had a sudden understanding of why people kissed the ground although there was no way he was going to kiss the floor of a dirty airport. 

And of course there was the whole high from performing Inception, from accomplishing the impossible. It was glorious, and Eames kept biting his lip to stop himself from beaming like a fucking groom. He couldn’t stop himself from looking around at Ariadne who looked dazed, at Yousef who didn’t bother to hide his lunatic grin, at Saito who only looked up from his mobile to look at Cobb, at Cobb who just looked shocked. 

“To each his own, eh,” Eames said to Arthur at the baggage carousel, because of all of them, surely Arthur would understand best what Eames was feeling. But Arthur just looked at Eames with something akin to horror and uncertainty. “What?” 

He shook his head, took his luggage from the conveyer, and walked outside. Eames followed only a few steps behind; he saw Arthur sit down on the bench, elbows on knees and staring out at the line of taxis and Ubers. Eames stood next to him concerned. 

“I didn’t think we’d do it.” 

“That’s not unreasonable. We are the first to ever do Inception, darling.” 

“No.” Arthur looked down at the ground. “I mean, yes, I didn’t think we could do that, but I mean I didn’t think we’d ever get Cobb home again.” 

“What did you think was going to happen?” 

Arthur opened his mouth and no words came out for a long time. “I thought a lot of things. I thought we’d be arrested, I thought Saito would screw us over, I thought we’d be killed in our sleep. I never thought I would be here, on this side of security watching cars.” 

“So, what are you going to do now?” 

And Arthur laughed, that sharp painful bark of a laugh. “I don’t know. I didn’t make any plans.” 

“Surely you have a home somewhere you can go to, some fancy, minimalist flat with dead houseplants.” 

Arthur shook his head. “Gave that up over a year ago.” 

“Well then, I’m sure Mara would--” 

And Arthur laughed again. “Nope, I burned that bridge too. Burned all of them, except Cobb, and I can’t follow him home.” 

“Why?” And they both knew it wasn’t why Arthur couldn’t follow Cobb home. 

“It was a risk I couldn’t take.” His voice was shaky, just like it had been on the phone all those months ago. 

And Eames might have believed he was still that risk, if it weren’t for the way Arthur had steered everyone away anytime his Mum called, if it weren’t for the worry that clawed at Eames in the second level, if it weren’t for the look of complete loneliness on Arthur’s face in this moment. “What happened?” 

Arthur sighed. “We took a job in Ukraine, for the government. It was the first legal job we’d gotten since Cobb---Anyway, wasn’t the Ukrainian government, it was the Russians. Wanted an extraction on an aid to the American Ambassador.” 

“Did you do it?” 

Arthur nodded, shoulders tense, hands in fists. “Didn’t know until we’d given over the intel that it was Russians.” He mashed his lips together hard for a moment. “I’m pretty sure I’m a traitor now.” 

“You did what you had to.” 

“I couldn’t let them get to Mara or your mom,” He paused, licked his lips, and looked out at the cars. “Or you. I didn’t want you on this job, but Cobb was all I had. I couldn’t let that fail too.” 

“Get up.” Eames picked up Arthur’s suitcase. 

“What?” 

Eames hailed a cab. “You’re coming with me. I made hotel reservations and bought tickets for the LA Symphony.” 

“You did not buy tickets for the Symphony.” 

Eames smiled, and handed the bags over to the cabbie. “I most certainly did. And now I have a date.”


	9. Chapter 9

It was a simple plan, because all the best plans were, but timing was everything. And it was over a week before Arthur found an opportunity to begin. He suffered through early nights and lying awake in bed, he endured the small talk with Stewart and Marissa, and he watched what Arthur felt was a truly offensive amount of Netflix. For an entire week, he bided his time until they went into the Dream Space again. 

But there were no answers there. 

Arthur was standing in the lobby of a beautiful glass building. A Japanese man, the same man from before, walked up a set of stairs deep in conversations with another man whom Arthur could not see. The ceiling was several floors above, sloping into the wall, and the wall was a fine sheet of tinted windows. The tiles on the floor were black and white marble, and business people moved in and out with sharp, echoing steps while completely ignoring the display of impressionist paintings along a side wall. 

As a general rule, Arthur did not like the impressionists, didn’t care for the fuzzy, wistful paintings of landscapes or dancers or the starry sky. Disliked, in fact, their lack of clarity and inattention to details. But there was one hanging on the wall that caught his eye, it blended in with the other paintings, hanging somewhere in the middle, indistinguishable from the others at the distance Arthur stood. 

So he moved closer. 

It was a painting of a child in a garden with a manor house in the background. The paint had been applied thickly, with a knife, and stuck out from the canvass making the subject matter impossible to discern at the twelve inch distance Arthur stood. He leaned in close to study the knife work and wanted to touch the textured surface. Was the paint soft and springy under his fingers, or would it be sharp and biting? 

“An interesting choice,” Julia said. 

Arthur didn’t reply, he was too caught in the way the soft colors melted together, in the peaks and valleys of the paint searching for some sort of meaning that was probably impossible to discern at such a close distance. 

“How does it make you feel?” she asked. 

Her question startled Arthur, because he hadn’t thought about how the painting made him feel, even though that was the purpose of art, to inspire emotion. Arthur leaned back to study the whole, but it wasn’t far enough. He took several steps back so that the painting did not dominate the space in front of him, so that he could see the frames and edges of the paintings next to it. He looked at the child, face tilted towards the flowers as if trying to catch the scent. It was an old fashioned image with pinafores and petticoats, and while Arthur liked some old things, this was rustic and charming and reminded him of a fancy version of his childhood. It shouldn’t have elicited much in the way of emotions, perhaps a sort of bitterness that Arthur didn’t let himself feel often. But it brought out something much stronger. “Lonely. I feel lonely.” 

It seemed incongruous with the soft colors, the cheery flowers, and charming child. This was a painting to make someone feel wistful or longing for simpler times. But Arthur felt a pit in his chest, an emptiness that refused to be filled, that was so omnipresent as to be forgotten most of the time. It made Arthur think of his suit and his Glock. 

He could feel Julia nod against his cheek, feel the slide of her lips along his skin as they drifted towards his ear. “It’s a fake, you know.” 

“Arthur!” Stewart shouted from the staircase, fear coating his voice. 

“It seems our time is drawing to a close, darling,” she whispered, running her hand across his chest to slip underneath his jacket. 

Arthur saw the other members of the team. Stewart on the stairs, Matthews coming in through the doorway, Matthews was drawing his gun, too far away for Arthur to identify, but small, possibly a sig. And then there was the impossibly loud shot of the Glock as Julia fired from point blank range. 

When Arthur opened his eyes, he was in the Dream Lab, and he laid in the chair quietly and thought about the painting while the nurse removed his IV and the others woke up. He thought about the gaping hole in his chest and the overwhelming need to know--to know now--what he had lost. 

Stewart was at his side almost as soon as he opened his own eyes. “What did she say to you?” 

Arthur turned to the side slowly, considering what Stewart said, considering what Julia said, weighing his options. “The painting’s a fake, that’s what she said.” 

“Why--What does that even matter?” Stewart ran his hands angrily through his hair, and Arthur saw his opening. 

“I don’t know. She always talks nonsense.” Arthur sat up slowly, the empty feeling remained, but his mind felt sharper now, more focused. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. “If my subconscious feels under attack, maybe if there were fewer people, it would feel more relaxed.” He didn’t say any more, didn’t suggest that Stewart bring the PASIV back to the house, that perhaps just the two of them could go under. Best to go with the simplest version, to let the idea grow organically in his mind. 

A more considered look crossed Stewart’s face, softening his anger. Arthur leaned forward and studied his hands and did his own thinking. It seemed like Julia was forever pushing him closer and closer to the truth, and Arthur had known when she slid her hand across his chest that she was going to shoot him. He’d let it happen this time. 

What happened that Arthur trusted a figment of his own imagination more than an ex boyfriend? 

For four days, Arthur waited to see if his plan had worked. The endless waiting was starting to grate on him, wearing him down like a whet stone on a knife, sharpening his temper to a fine edge that he wasn’t sure he could keep sheathed. Arthur wasn’t the one with the skills for a con like this one, he was the sniper, waiting for the perfect shot, weighing the options, not the spy waiting for a mark to knock himself over. 

Sunday was like nails on a chalkboard inside Arthur’s head as they ate breakfast at a nearby diner, as Stewart talked about needing to purchase a new shirt for some wedding, even the bright sunshine seemed determined to cast a glare everywhere Arthur looked. The only calming part of the day was the trip to the gun range. Arthur sat at the counter again while Stewart shot and breathed in the gunsmoke and listened to the gunfire and remembered the feel of the Glock in his hand. 

But he didn’t shoot. 

Monday, his patience was rewarded. Oh, not right away, he had to make it through the whole day first, through another therapy appointment that left him feeling angry and trapped, like a wounded animal. And maybe that’s what he was, an animal recovering from a head wound, just as likely to bite the hand that fed it. 

He spent the day pretending to watch the Witcher while Stewart worked on his computer, and made phone calls to his team members. Arthur stayed in the house when Stewart went to the gun range, and then searched Stewart’s office again after he was alone in the house. He looked at the safe, considered the combination lock. It wasn’t terribly expensive, and since Arthur had an hour at least before Stewart returned, he decided to crack the safe. 

Arthur went to the kitchen and got a glass to help amplify the sounds, and then set about listening for clicks as he ever so slowly turned the dial. He needed to identify the number of wheels in the lock to know how many numbers in the combination. He turned and listened, six. And then he repeated the process, just to make sure. It was still six. With another twenty minutes before Stewart might return, Arthur stole a piece of printer paper and began to graph out the numbers on the safe in order to find the combination. It was a tedious process that involved listening for the camshaft to connect with the various wheels, recording the numbers on the graph, and then resetting the combination and starting over again. Arthur would need to plot one point for every three numbers on the dial, which meant he had to repeat this process sixty times. He wasn’t very far into the process when the twenty minutes came to an end. 

Arthur folded up his graph and hid it in his pocket before going downstairs and sat down, pretending to have watched the Witcher all that time. 

Stewart came in the house with fast food, and Arthur kept all of his cringing thoughts inside his head and nibbled at the fried fish sandwich. Surely someone must enjoy that type of food, Stewart seemed to like it, but Arthur would have preferred something with more vegetables or perhaps a grain bowl. While Stewart sat on the couch rewatching an episode, Arthur went into the kitchen and reheated a can of green beans, because the peas would be far mushier then Arthur liked and he’d eaten the last can of corn yesterday. 

They sat on the couch ( _sofa_ ) and watched two episodes, finally making it to the season finale, which Arthur found to be rather anticlimactic and said so. 

“You don’t appreciate good fantasy,” Stewart dismissed his opinion. 

“No,” Arthur clarified. “I am not a fan of high fantasy. The ideas of destiny and fate, I disagree with. What about free will? 

“It’s about duty and honor,” Stewart said. 

“You can have duty and honor without fate. Those ideas aren’t specifically linked. For example, I feel a duty to my country, to serve and protect the people I care for and my home, but that doesn’t mean I am fated for the military. I could just as easily fulfill that duty through the Peace Corps or Teach for America. I still have choice and free will in how I act on that duty.” 

Stewart shrugged. “That’s true, but this is about family. You don’t have a choice in that.” 

Arthur considered this, considered his mother and Bill and Mara and the choices he had in those relationships. But the comparison grated, family wasn’t just blood. “I suppose I just don’t like the idea of being trapped in a situation not of my own making.” 

“You have to play the cards you've been dealt.” Stewart pointed out. 

_Or cheat._ A warm glow lit up inside of Arthur because he was going to cheat. 

Stewart got up off the couch. “I’ve got that debriefing today, and then a meeting afterwards. I’ll probably be home late.” 

Arthur sat down. “S’okay, there must be something else on here worth watching.” 

“Try Altered Carbon, I bet you like that much better. Science Fiction.” Stewart suggested. 

“I’ll check it out.” Arthur nodded and pulled up the search option. “Thanks. Good luck.” And then Stewart was gone. 

Arthur watched half an episode, just to get a feel of the show, enough to be able to talk about it later, and left the show on while he went back to the safe. It took him another hour and a half to open the door. Stewart had a sig, his passport, and a small pile of cash tucked in there, all things that would be useful when Arthur made his move. He closed the safe, spun the lock and then committed the combination to memory before burning his graph in the bathroom. 

After watching another episode, Arthur raided the kitchen for supper. There was some frozen chicken, microwave rice, and frozen California medley, not exactly high on Arthur's list of favorite meals, but he was hungry, and it was better than more drive through. He ate in the kitchen, listening to the show still playing in the living room, and then, after washing the dishes, adjourned to the couch ( _sofa_ ). 

It was almost 8pm when Stewart returned to the house. Arthur paused the show when the front door opened. “This is later than I was expecting--” His voice died as Stewart stepped into the hallway with the silver briefcase in one hand. “That’s the PASIV.” 

Stewart nodded. “Part of the reason I’m so late. The plan is for us to try going under in the morning, just the two of us.” 

Even though Arthur had been hoping that Stewart would bring it into the house, he hadn’t actually expected this outcome. It was easy, too easy, and that didn’t feel right, didn’t settle his stomach. “I didn’t think you’d bring the thing here.” 

“Well, if the idea is to make you more comfortable, it makes sense to be in a more casual setting, does it?” 

“Yes.” Arthur licked his lips and forced himself to remain seated. “You said in the morning?” It was the part of the plan he couldn’t control, when Stewart would want to go under. 

“Yep.” Stewart took his shoes off and started up the stairs. 

Arthur forced himself to wait a moment before following to see what Stewart did with the PASIV. He’d gone into the office, and Arthur lurked by the door, watching, arms crossed as Stewart bent down to put it in the safe. Arthur didn’t need to watch to know. “Do you think it will work?” 

Stewart looked up from the floor. “It was your idea.” 

“I know.” Arthur uncrossed his arms. “I just, I’m just starting to think I’m never going to get those memories back.” 

“Well, we’ve just got to keep trying. We’ll figure it out.” Stewart stood. “How do you like Altered Carbon?” 

Arthur shrugged and started down the steps. “It’s better than Witcher, but I don’t know.” 

“You’re impossible to please.” 

There was nothing Arthur could say to that. He didn’t think he was so impossible to please, he was pretty sure there was something out there that pleased him quite a bit. 

Around 9pm, Arthur made a pot of sleepy time tea and briefly considered the possibility that this would be the very last time he had to drink the ridiculous beverage. He walked back to the front room to check on Stewart, who was still lounging in the chair and he pretended to watch the show for a few minutes while the tea steeped. And then Arthur went back to the kitchen, he carefully ground up three of the sleeping pills into one of the cups, added sugar and milk, and then poured the tea. He took one pill in hand and walked back to the room with the two cups in the other. 

Stewart took his tea gratefully, and sipped slowly. Arthur could feel him watching as he put the pill in his mouth and swallowed a large sip of tea. And then, Arthur waited. He’d tucked the pill under his tongue, and after several minutes, coughed it carefully into his hand. Stewart’s eyes closed after twenty minutes, but Arthur waited an entire hour to be sure he was truly asleep. 

Quietly, Arthur went upstairs to put on Stewart’s uniform, taking care to arrange the hat to cover most of his hair. Then he carefully unlocked the safe and took the passport, cash, and PASIV. He wasted a minute deciding about whether to take the gun or not, but there was going to be international travel and the gun didn’t seem worthwhile. Finally, Arthur found the keys in the bowl in the entryway and simply walked out the front door. 

The car started no problem, and Arthur backed out of the driveway. It was easy to remember how to get to the gate, since they had gone off base to eat and shop. And it was easy to drive away because the guards watched people going in, not people going out. 

Once out on the open stretch of road headed into the dark desert, Arthur wasn’t sure what to do. He hadn’t planned much after getting off base, because he hadn’t been entirely sure what the circumstances might be, and was certain the plan would have to change as soon as he made it past the gate. Ultimately, It didn’t much matter really which direction he drove or where he went because he needed to lay a false trail. 

Arthur let out a breath he’d been holding since he’d handed Stewart the tea. It wasn’t safe yet, that wouldn't come for a while, but driving in the dark on an unknown road with a mission in mind was like the suit and the Glock, it felt natural. This road went south, so Arthur drove to the Mexico border, it wasn’t a long drive, less than an hour and a half in the nighttime traffic. Arthur parked the car in the pedestrian parking lot and considered his new options. He could try to cross the border, but that seemed unlikely to succeed as he and Stewart looked nothing alike especially in that passport photo. He could steal a car and drive north and hopefully find a way to alter the passport before the Canadian border. Or, he could try to steal a passport from someone who looked more like him. 

None of the options seemed very likely. 

For a brief moment, Arthur considered driving to Tennessee. It would be easy and nice, and he longed to see Mara and hug his mother. But Stewart would think to look for him there, and Arthur wouldn’t bring trouble to their door if he could help it. He was on his own, and he needed to get to London. 

Still seated in the car in a parking lot at the border, Arthur counted the cash, just about five hundred dollars, not enough. He’d need to pick someone’s pocket, or a few someone’s anyway, which made the best passport option finding someone who looked like him, who would hopefully be drunk and stumbling back to his car. There wasn’t much time for that. 

Arthur got out of the car and moved towards the biggest group of people, who were all huddled around border security, waiting to cross into the night life in Juarez. Once in the crowd, Arthur quickly looked for someone about his height with dark hair. He could get some fake contacts for the eye color, or maybe dye his hair? But then, all of sudden he was at the border with a guard asking for his passport. 

“Arthur?” The guard asked, peering intently at Arthur. 

“Yes?” Arthur said hesitantly, heart racing and lungs failing.. 

“Oh my god, I wasn’t sure it was you. God, it’s been over five years, how have you been? Going for the bars are you?” He was smiling and friendly and Arthur took that as a sign he wasn’t about to be detained. 

“Oh, yeah,” Arthur smiled and gave a nervous laugh that hopefully came off as friendly. “Just on vacation, and thought I’d see what the night life is like.” 

“You and everybody else.” He stamped Stewart’s passport. “If you see Cobb, make sure you tell him I said hello, and thanks. I’ve never been so appreciative in my life.” 

“Will do.” Arthur gave him a wave and tried not to run into Mexico as his heart tried to beat it’s way out of his chest. Out of sight of the border patrol, he sank his head between his knees and tried to breath. How on earth did anyone, ever, manage to escape the US Military? He was never going to make it on his own, and if he had any contacts there was no way he could actually contact them! Arthur tried to breathe, tried to remind himself that there were more options in Mexico, his money would go farther, he had all night now to find a drunk person to steal from. It was going to be fine. 

He would make it to London. 

And after several minutes of that, Arthur was able to breathe normally again, able to make himself stand and walk to the nearest bar, able to go inside and look for his quarry. 

It was smoky and smelled like tequila and sweat, but most of the patrons weren’t drunk yet. To kill a little time, Arthur stepped up to the bar and ordered a local brew before finding an out of the way corner to observe the crowd. Because Arthur happened to other people, just like someone had happened to him. 

It was about an hour before his victim arrived, a young college kid with dark hair, brown eyes, and narrow face that wasn’t dissimilar to Arthur’s. Over the course of fifteen minutes, Arthur watched him suck down a margarita and three tequila shots. After each shot, he shook his head violently and went, “Dude!” 

Arthur took several deep breaths to calm himself and his hands. 

_Wait for the right moment._

Arthur watched him pay with cash for another round of shots, watched him slip the wallet into the back pocket of his baggy jeans. He waited, carefully hidden, eyes focused on his quarry but not staring. And then the kid got up and stumbled towards the men's; Arthur drained the last of his beer, and followed. 

He stumbled against the door to the men's, and Arthur reached a hand up to open it. “Here.” 

“Thanks, dude.” 

Arthur held the door open and lightly slipped his hand into his back pocket. 

“Dude! So straight here!” 

“Sorry,” Arthur flushed, but slipped the wallet quickly into his sleeve. His mark stepped into the bathroom, and Arthur stepped out, wallet and passport carefully concealed in up his sleeve. 

Now he just needed to ditch the uniform. 

Arthur left the bar, found another group of people stumbling about and joined the tail end. He trailed after them until they reached an open market area where most of the vendors seemed to be selling street tacos. But Arthur found a place selling leather jackets, and picked one up, the buttery brown leather reminded him of shopping with Stewart, but the jacket didn’t look anything like the uniform, and Arthur liked it. He picked up a canvas messenger bag and then began a search for pants. 

But who buys pants in a street market? 

For several moments, Arthur considered his next move. He had a passport, he had a credit card and some cash. Maybe it was time to leave? 

Across the street, Arthur saw a convenience store, and decided to pick up a few more supplies. He bought hair gel, crazy glue, sunglasses, and a crushable wide brimmed hat. But no pants. Carefully, Arthur tucked all of his new purchases into the messenger bag and made his way back across the border using his new passport. 

It was a different guard who didn’t look at him twice. 

In the parking lot, Arthur covered his fingers in glue in preparation of stealing a car. There were several reasonable options, but Arthur took the 1990’s corolla because it was easy to hotwire. And then he was on the road headed towards the nearest decent sized town for Walmart. His lip automatically curled up in distaste, but he was certain to find pants and a phone there. There wasn’t much cash, about eight hundred, hopefully that would be enough for a flight. 

He drove to Albuquerque for the Walmart and then went to the airport where he ditched the car. He went inside, still in Stewart uniform, bought the cheapest ticket he could find (to LA) with Stewart’s passport and credit card, and then walked out the front door and stripped off the uniform and shoved it into the bag. At the bus terminal, he used the stolen credit card to get a bus to Dallas. And from Dallas, he bought a ticket with the cash for London. 

He kept his eyes open, pretended to sleep on the bus, and watched the other passengers. He smiled at the flight attendants and sipped lightly at his water throughout the long flight. And then, approximately twenty four hours after it started, Arthur arrived in London exhausted but there. It was only a matter of finding a cab and giving the address. 

Thirty minutes later, Arthur stood in front of the long row of flats and gripped his briefcase tightly. His hands were starting to hurt from having clutched at the handle the entire flight and cab ride, but he wasn’t about to let it go now. He sucked in a deep breath and looked over the doors, not trying to remember which was the correct one, but working up the nerve to knock on the door. He could feel, deep in the pit of his stomach, that he shouldn’t be here, but at the same time, Arthur felt that empty hole in his chest gaping as if raw at the edges. He wanted to go inside. There was something inside that was more than the Glock and the suit and the feeling he’d had driving down the road. Or maybe not more but just as, just as important as those things, something precious and vital. Maybe this was not a place to bring trouble, but he hadn’t seen anyone, had worked hard to cover his tracks. 

But he could have done more, a voice said. He could have taken a less direct path, he could have switched up the credit cards more often, he could have-- 

The door opened. “Arthur?” He was broad shouldered and solid, Arthur could tell even through the loose button down and wide legged pants. He had on a sportcoat. Arthur’s eyes caught on the stubble along his jaw, on the neatly combed hair, on the way his face went a bit pale and his eyes a bit wide, on the quiet way he said Arthur’s name. That sense of wanting increased ten fold. 

This was the man Julia had sent him to. This was the man he was supposed to trust. And Arthur looked at him, at the way he stood open and solidly planted on the ground. His shoes were leather and sensible, his pants sturdy and fitted, the sports coat capable of hiding a weapon or stolen wallets. He had grey eyes and pink lips. Arthur wasn’t just supposed to trust this man, he actually trusted this man. 

Arthur clutched the PASIV a little harder and swallowed. “Hello.” 

“Where the fuck have you been?” The man clutched at the door frame with one hand. “I was sure you were dead at the hands of some nameless Russians.” 

The bottom dropped out of Arthur’s stomach; there were Russians to worry about?! “Not dead.” He swallowed again and licked his lips. Then he looked at the road behind him, checking for anything suspicious. “Could we, maybe, go inside?” Away from any prying eyes. 

He nodded once and stepped back inside the flat. 

Arthur squeezed in around him, trying to keep as much distance as possible between them. Yes, he trusted this man, but that need to take his problems somewhere else had only increased with that knowledge. There was a solid deadbolt on the door and a chain, motion sensors on the doors and the windows that Arthur could see. Wood floor that didn’t squeak or shift under his feet. A front room like Stewart’s with a TV mounted on the wall and a very modern looking couch with long straight lines and low arm rests. Arthur walked down the hall to see the kitchen, bright and white and clean. A bowl of fruit on the counter. Another short hall led to the left, and Arthur turned to go down it, but the man was in the way. 

“Seriously, Arthur, where have you been?” 

Arthur tucked the silver case behind him, and, not for the first time, wished that he had been able to cuff it to his wrist. His nerves were starting to fray. “It’s a long story.” 

“Yeah?” He loomed in the doorway, hands clutching the crown molding. “Because I was expecting you four months ago. You said you were going to visit Cobb, make up with your sister, and then come to London. We were going to celebrate Mum’s birthday. And then you don’t show, and your mobile doesn’t even go to voicemail, and I called Cobb and I went to your sister. I reached out to every contact I fucking have to find you. But when you go to ground, you fucking disappear. So, what the fuck happened to you?” 

Four months he’d said, but Arthur had only been living with Stewart for a few weeks. What happened four months ago? Was that what Stewart wanted from him? Arthur rubbed his fingers together and looked around the kitchen without seeing anything. He remembered Matthews in the bar talking to Stewart, he remembered the way Stewart had stumbled and claimed to have things under control. 

Arthur looked at Eames, at his pink lips, at the shape of them, at the way they were just a little chapped and realized he knew those lips, knew the feel of them, knew they way they curved around words and smiles, knew the gentle press of them, knew the way they could heat up. Arthur didn’t know if he and this man were fucking, didn’t know what their relationship was at all, but there was a beating in his chest, and a clenching in his stomach, a twisting that said whatever their relationship was, it was unlike any other Arthur had. 

He looked over the man, at the muscles under his shirt, at the strength in his grip on the molding, at the way he stood, braced and strong. He would not be a pushover in a fight, not like Stewart. Arthur licked his lips. He’d have to talk his way out. “This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here.” 

“Horseshit.” He leaned forward. “You should have come here months ago. Don’t cut me out again Arthur. I can help you.” 

But Arthur was shaking his head. “It’s too big a risk, I can’t--” 

He brought his hands down on Arthur’s arm, crushing his biceps in his hands, “Oh no, we’re not doing that again. I am not some sort of civilian who can’t protect himself, Arthur. You’ve come here, whatever it is, I’m in it now. You can’t just walk away from me. Just. Tell. Me.” 

Arthur inhaled. “I can’t.” 

“Why the fuck not?” 

“I can’t remember. I’m missing something like five years.” 

And he deflated, all the fight gone, and he dropped Arthur’s arm. “Shit, Arthur. How does that even happen?” 

“I don’t know.” 

He looked Arthur up and down. “Well, that certainly explains the outfit. I didn’t think you even knew what ASDA was, let alone set foot in one.” 

Arthur looked down at his Walmart jeans. 

But he was still talking. “I don’t have anything in your size, but we’ll take you shopping. You must have a rash underneath there. How long have you been wearing them?” 

“Umm, two days?” 

He leaned in and sniffed Arthur. “You smell like an airport. Come on, let’s get you in the shower. I’ll find something for you and we’ll go to the shops.” 

Eames led Arthur to the bath, and then disappeared into his bedroom. The shirts would all be too large, but at least they wouldn’t fall off of him. Trousers were a different problem. After a moment in front of his closet, Eames went back out to the hall and riffled through the messenger bag on the floor outside the bath. A hat, sunglasses, an army green t-shirt, leather jacket. And fatigues. Eames swallowed. Nothing good could possibly have come from that. 

He went back to his room and found a respectable solid colored t-shirt that Arthur would never wear but would fit better and would look decent underneath the jacket. And then he found a pair of jeans that were a bit tight on Eames, but would definitely need a belt to stay up on Arthur. He knocked on the bathroom door, and then deposited the pile on the toilet for Arthur when he got out. 

Eames went back to the kitchen for a scotch and considered the options. If Arthur was on the run from the military, then they must have tried to extract from him. Eames had never heard of someone trying to do that to Arthur, knew that Arthur must be militarized, knew that extracting from someone in the business was risky and difficult. That might explain the amnesia, especially, if some overzealous army drone had gone in with a heavy hand. 

He needed to protect Arthur. 

Eames threw back the scotch and reached for his mobile. 

Arthur stood in the shower, let the water run over him, and thought of Julia. He thought of her and the Heckler and Koch saying “I’m just trying to protect you.” He thought of her handing him the record and of the address and the name Montgomery. This man was Montgomery, and Arthur whispered the name to himself; it felt wrong in his mouth and sounded worse. 

He turned off the water and got out. Arthur dressed in the clothes that Montgomery had left for him. Still no underwear, and something about that made him smile. He padded out to the living room, drying his hair on the towel. Montgomery was sitting on the sofa ( _couch_ ), finger pressed to his temple, and deep in thought. 

Arthur cleared his throat. 

“Oh darling,” Montgomery said, pinching his eyes closed. “You’ve been with the military.” 

Arthur sat down on a chair and looked at the painting on the wall. It was an impressionist, a child in a garden, a fake. He’d called Arthur darling. “Yes, for about two weeks.” 

Montgomery looked up from the floor. “Just two weeks?” 

“I don’t know. I can remember five years ago, and then the last two weeks, everything in between is gone.” 

“I need you to tell me everything.” Montgomery fixed a clear gaze on Arthur. 

But Arthur was looking at the painting. “Do you own a Heckler and Koch?” 

Montgomery startled a little, but then said in a very calm voice, “No. It’s the pistol I use in the Dream Space though.” 

So he knew about Shared Dreaming and the PASIV. Arthur looked over at the silver case by the doorway. “Two weeks ago I woke up in the barracks on Holloman Airbase in New Mexico with--with Stewart outside the door.” Arthur told him everything, told him about trying on clothes at Macy’s, about running and his trip to Mexico, and about Julia. 

“Julia?” Montgomery said as soon as Arthur mentioned her name. 

“Yes. She always finds me, she led me here.” 

Montgomery swallowed visibly. “Does she-does she call you something?” 

“Darling.” 

He ran a hand roughly over his mouth and Arthur had the impression he was trying to hide some emotion. “What’s my name, Arthur?” 

“Montgomery.” 

He did the thing with his hand again, and then fell back onto the sofa ( _couch_ ). “Shit. It’s not five years. It’s six.” 

“What?” 

“We met six years ago, and you’ve never called me Montgomery. Please Arthur, I want to hear you say my name.” There was a pleading tone to his voice, something soft and needy. 

_I want to hear you say my name._ That’s what Julia had said, I want to hear you say my name. It fell out of Arthur’s mouth in a breathless sigh, “Eames.” 

And the flood gates opened. Little Philippa, and Ariadne and Mal’s death, and threatening Bill with Eames standing in the doorway. Violet and her roses, tickets to the symphony, and knowing that they needed to be protected. Russians, and Inception and-- “That’s what he wanted!” Arthur said suddenly. 

Because before he’d woken up in the Barracks, he’d woken up in the Dream Space. 

It was the same cityscape Matthews had designed for all the other Dreams. Where Cobb and Arthur would have designed something smaller, something that bent back upon itself to contain the Dreamer and the secrets, this was wide and sprawling and detailed. Matthews must have worked for months on the design. 

They’d made it large because they’d assumed that Arthur held so many secrets, they’d wanted to give him space to fill with every bit they might possibly want to know. And they’d come armed to the teeth, knowing that Arthur would be militarized because he’d gone through the same training they all had. 

But they’d thought they would have more time. 

Arthur was sedated and they’d thought that would slow down the projections. They’d caught him unaware and in the midst of exhaustion. They’d given him something to slow his brain function and lower his inhibitions. They thought they had prepared for whatever Arthur could throw at them. 

In the Dream, Arthur was seated at a café, drinking Earl Grey, black and steeped three minutes. _How did you get here?_ It was a sunny day, warm enough to warrant sitting outside. _Where is here?_ He was outside, waiting for someone. Waiting for who? 

He watched the people walk down the street, watched the way they walked, observed their posture and their physique, determined the level of risk. It was something he did often while he was waiting, a good way to stay in practice. _Waiting for who?_

But was he waiting for someone? The thoughts felt fuzzy and slow. Who was he supposed to meet in this cafe? Arthur didn’t frequent cafes, and where was he anyway? Was this London? The menu had been in French, and the building across the street had a poster for the LA Symphony. 

He stood up abruptly, and the people on the street disappeared. Someone was in his mind. 

It didn’t take long for the projections to find Stewart and his team. For the rain of grenades and bullets, for the projections to stab and claw and smash their way through the extraction team 

And all that time, Arthur stood in the café and waited. He knew now why he was there and who he was waiting for. It was a projection, and as Arthur watched broad shoulders narrowed, that suit jacket shifted to a red dress, the hair lengthen and grew lush. Only the pink of those lips remained the same. 

They both sat at the table, and Arthur took a sip of his tea. “They won’t find anything, even if they make it to the safe.” 

“Of course not.” Julia smiled. “Because you have no secrets to hide.” She held her hands out. “It’s all here, filed away for those who understand the system.” 

Arthur looked down at his tea. “You’ll have to take it, take all of it.” 

She nodded and poured a white powder into the teacup. “You trust me.” 

Arthur looked at her as he picked up the tea cup. “I trust you.” And he drank every last drop.


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this has been a fun ride. I very much enjoyed exploring what would happen if someone attempted to Extract from Arthur, exploring what his mind might do to solve that problem. I know there is a common understanding that Arthur is lacking in imagination, but I've always believed the elevator scene shows how excellent he is at problem solving. And what is an extraction attempt but a problem to be solved? I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!  
> Best!

Arthur sat across from Eames at their favorite café just down the street from Eames’s flat, a pot of tea and a plate of biscuits on the table between them. And the phone. 

Eames didn’t say anything, even though they had been sitting there for over twenty minutes, and Arthur had made no move to pick up the burner. It was a choice that might have far reaching consequences for nearly everyone they knew, and Arthur would make it when he was ready and not a moment before. 

Eames looked out at the street, admired the commuters, listened to the birds, thought about what to say to his mother about their relationship tonight when they both came for dinner for the first time. 

And then Arthur did snatch up the mobile in one smooth movement that was both quick and unhurried. He punched in the numbers purposefully and then waited for the operator to answer. “Yes, I’d like to speak with Analyst Stewart Benson.” 

“I’m sorry sir, I’m not sure how to connect you.” The operator said. 

Arthur smiled to himself. “Have you ever heard of Dream Sharing? No. Well, this is Arthur calling, and if Stewart would like to speak with me regarding his most recent attempts at extraction then I can be reached at this number for the next twenty minutes. If he needs a little more time, then I will also be available next week, at this time, at this number. But not before.” And he hung up the phone. 

“You weren’t really expecting to actually speak with him, were you?” Eames asked, cup half way to his mouth. ,p>“No. The question is, will he return my call in the next twenty minutes, or will it be next week.” 

“Which would you prefer?” 

Arthur considered for a moment. “I don’t know that he can get the message that quickly, but it is also possible that he will try to call in twenty-five minutes, to test my resolve.” He touched his own cup but didn’t pick it up. “I want him to take me seriously. I am not interested in playing games.” 

At nineteen minutes and thirty seconds, the phone rang. Arthur considered it, and then, on the third ring, answered. “Hello.” 

“Arthur?” Stewart’s voice was tinny on the other end of the line. A trace. 

“I’ll get straight to the point, Stewart. You leave me alone, you don’t come after me again or it will be worse than your heart getting ripped out of your chest. You leave my family alone, and anyone I might consider family.” 

“Or?” Stewart asked. 

“Or I tell everyone about Inception.” 

There was a long moment of silence. “Inception is impossible.” 

Arthur smiled to himself. “If you want Inception, figure it out yourself. I’m not interested. There are plenty of people in the business who might be, but I’m not one. And if you come after me again, if you kill me, I will make sure that information gets out to everyone. Can you imagine what people would be like if they knew their government could hack into their brains and make them think anything the government wanted?” 

“I don’t make those decisions, Arthur,” Stewart said very quietly into the phone. 

Arthur took the red die out of his pocket, the new one he had made last week to replace the one Stewart had stolen. He rolled it gently in his hand, looked over the numbers with care. “It’s not your choice to make Stewart. I am simply telling you that should you or anyone else decide they want what’s in my mind and try an extraction or that I am too big a risk to be alive, that there are consequences to those choices, that I will ensure everyone involved lives long enough to regret killing me.” 

“Arthur--” 

“Good bye, Stewart.” 

And Arthur hung up the phone. He reached to the plate and picked up a shortbread biscuit and popped the flaky, buttery morsel into his mouth. 

“Do you think he’s going to let it go?” 

“No, but I think he learned his lesson with me. And I think he knows I’m not some victim he can play.” 

Eames laughed softly and took a biscuit of his own. “Oh Arthur, I think you happened to him much more than he happened to you.” 

Arthur didn’t smile, didn’t feel the need. He wiped the crumbs on a napkin on the table, and put the die back into his trouser pocket. He ran his hand along his thigh, feeling the soft wool blend that fit so perfectly against his leg. He and Eames had just retrieved the suit that morning, bespoke--because everyone had their vices. The new Glock was tucked into his shoulder holster underneath, invisible thanks to the tailor, and he had slicked his hair back just the way he liked. “We should go to the grocery. I thought I’d make pan seared trout for your mother.” 

“I’m sure she would like that.” Eames reached for another biscuit, still smiling. 

They would get up in a few minutes and do just that. But for the moment, it was sunny in London, and the tea was just the right amount of sweet and the biscuits had about a pound of butter in them. Arthur had spoken with Mara, and made plans to visit next month with Eames. Philippa’s birthday was next month too, and Saito was planning on attending. Ariadne had gotten a job at a firm in LA, and it would be like a little reunion. Arthur wasn’t sure yet if he was going to tell them exactly what had happened. But none of that mattered yet, because it was sunny in London.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this chapter has a deleted scene that I liked too much not to share. The pov doesn't match with the rest of the story, and my Beta, the wonderous Kate, pointed out that it didn't contain any information that couldn't be inferred. But I liked it, especially the line about death.  
> It had started with a tail in LA two weeks after the Fischer Job, and would end in this hotel room. If Arthur had known he would have done something different: he might have picked a nicer hotel, or he might have slept in the airport and waited for the busy morning to slip out through the crowd, or he might have gone to France where he had more contacts and they liked him better. But he didn’t; he’d thought he was finally safe.  
> He never heard the door click shut. It might have been because he was too tired, with a head stuffed full of cotton, a direct result of not sleeping for two and a half days. It might have been because the hinges were of a particularly high quality and the lock exceptionally quiet. But it was mostly because the door never shut. Arthur hadn’t seen anyone in the hall because there had not been anyone in the hall. They were hidden in the stairwell just next to his room, waiting for the moment. They were hidden in the room on the other side, watching through the peephole as he stumbled down the hall.  
> There were eight of them, Special Ops and highly trained to handle deadly force, although, in Arthur’s current state, it wouldn’t have mattered if they were a particularly angry group of house cats; Arthur would not have been able to summon the force to open a stubborn jar let alone death. Still precautions were taken, the men approached silently, and Arthur was hit with a tranquilizer. They counted out the ten minutes to ensure he was completely incapacitated, then bound him hand and foot with zip ties. Only then did they carry him out and stuff him unceremoniously into the rear passenger side of an unmarked car.  
> It was less than an hour and Arthur was on his way to the closest military base where they were waiting for him and the silver briefcase still cuffed to his wrist.


End file.
